


More Than Business

by SummerJay



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie is emotionally aware, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Drug Use, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hurt/comfort undertones, relationship fic, they start off fucking but then feelings happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24127192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerJay/pseuds/SummerJay
Summary: Sometimes it's fucking, sometimes it's longing for something other than fucking, but it always comes down to business. The trick, Alfie realizes after Tommy's none too accidental run-in with Sabini, is to make him the right offer.In which casual sex inadvertently becomes less casual, volatile partnerships are born, and Tommy still can't deal with feelings.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 50
Kudos: 228





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I've just finished season 5, and this was supposed to be a tiny fix-it fic. Now it's spiraled out of hand and I regret nothing. S02 mood and setting, lots of feels, lots of Alfie, and Tommy struggling with basic human functioning.  
> Hope you enjoy!

There is a problem with Thomas Shelby that a man like Alfie could very successfully exploit.

It’s not his determination to spit in the face of the maker too early. It’s not his practical negligence of his own human nature. For what Alfie knows, Thomas isn’t truly decisive in his not-eating, not-sleeping, not-fucking-relaxing routine, it’s just something that happens to him and that he’s too indifferent to remedy. No, Tommy’s got a full pack of wonderful character traits up his pretty arse.

The problem with Tommy Shelby is his bloody ego.

Alfie looks at his squared shoulders, at deft but tense fingers unbuttoning his shirt, at the guarded, almost blank expression on his face, and feels all sorts of things. Foremost, he feels offended.

Tommy comes closer, tugs at the hem of Alfie’s trousers, and Alfie bats his hand away for reasons he thoroughly dislikes. He brushes the hair out of Tommy’s eyes and moves the hand to the back of his neck, leaves it there in a heavy warm presence. Tommy parts his lips. Alfie feels the goosebumps on the man’s skin with his thumb.

Tommy uses him. That doesn’t cause a surge of infuriation, for the act is entirely mutual. But today, Tommy is looking like he’s reached some sort of limit and is now shamelessly trying to escape that avalanche by hurting himself at Alfie’s hands. Without a fucking word. And Alfie can’t silence the problem he has with it.

“You somewhere else today, Tommy?” he asks softly, rubbing small circles into Tommy’s neck and hoping he doesn’t bolt. That’s really not the fucking intention.

Thomas doesn’t bolt.

He stops.

He doesn’t freeze, with Shelby there’s an Everest of difference between the two, and it’s the worse one. He tenses, all the way from his hips, still pressed to Alfie, to his eyes that suddenly fly open, and he grows all sharp and gathered, ready to deflect a blow. As if Alfie were to hit him instead of trying to talk to him. Would he prefer that? With Tommy that isn’t at all improbable. Fuck it.

“Cause you look fucked enough already mate, so I’m wondering if more fucking is doing you more harm than good.” Alfie continues and feels like he’s tugging at a guitar string that’s going to break any second and chop off his fingers.

Tommy stares at him for a second. His breathing is completely under control now.

“What I mean is,” Alfie wraps the other arm around Tommy’s waist, “escaping is only good when you know where you’re running, yeah. Otherwise you keep getting further into the woods. I ain’t wanna be your suicide bloody assistant, darling.”

It feels like hugging a particularly stressed marble statue with shards of glass sticking out of it. Alfie knows he fucked it up before Thomas even blinks.

“Right,” Tommy says eventually and entangles himself from Alfie’s hands.

Alfie lets him. Right. Nothing right about that but nothing to be done either.

Tommy gets dressed, methodically, and leaves, the only indication of his true emotions in the way he throws no witty line to emphasize his exit.

Alfie stands as he were, pressed to the table for another moment. Then he breaks a bottle. A good one, according to the smell that fills the room. He tells himself that it’s foolish to expend a reaction like that on a drama of this scope, but reasoning doesn’t help.

Tommy is gonna explode just like that fucking bottle if he doesn’t disperse all those feelings he’s been diligently collecting for years. The problem is, Alfie reflects as he mends his shirt into a familiar composition of disorder, the problem is, Tommy Shelby is not as easily replaceable.

***

Days go by, turn into weeks, and Alfie goes to yell at someone every time he finds himself wanting to grab a piece of paper and send a note to one gypsy idiot in his piss of a town. Tommy has surely already found a suitable conclusion and planted it deep into his head. Usual Shelby fashion. Probably something about being too pitiful for Alfie to fuck. Which isn’t the case by the whole mileage from this sinful earth to heaven.

The actual case is a little more disturbing. Alfie may have had a way with words, and there’s been enough times he fooled himself to at least try and beware of doing it intentionally. And through the grumpy attitude to the whole thing, Alfie had to admit, after a few violent episodes to shake off the residual agitation, that he was quite unfortunately emotionally involved with Thomas bloody Shelby. It happens. It goes. You admit it and drift away from it because your place in the world is simply not right for this kind of a relationship. Alfie, unlike certain elements, avoids pretending to be a rock like fucking fire. It interferes too much with his actually being one.

But it is one thing to be smitten by some lad with big blue eyes.

It is completely different to have it in him for the leader of the Peaky fucking Blinders. And this is the line beyond which even Alfie doesn’t let his insanity venture. They are both too much entangled in dubious and volatile loyalties to entertain the idea of trust. So he keeps his mouth shut for once and keeps his letters out of paper and lets Thomas form whatever opinions he wishes on the other side of that bloody wall of a face.

They continue to deal like the fucking respectable businessmen they are. And with all the fucking and Tommy’s rare half-smiles that have stopped suddenly and surely, well, Alfie can live without those things.

***

Alfie has never been the one to harbour hate in his heart. He’s killed in the war, and, yeah, he’s killed out of it, never keeping a precise track of lives that evaporated at his fingers or commands, but he’s never felt lingering hate for any of his rivals. Rage, yes. Hell, he’s never tried to deny he wasn’t exactly right in the head when it came to violence. But Alfie Solomons is a man of God, and God does not approve of hate.

This is why Alfie sits at the table with Darby Sabini this morning instead of beating him to the floor and rolling a barrel of the finest over his head until all that Italian arrogance explodes and drains through the cracks in the floor. Alfie envisions it several times while Sabini speaks. The barrel gets heavier and heavier, until Sabini finally reveals the real purpose of his unwelcome visit. And then the barrel suddenly disappears, and Alfie inclines his head and pictures with total fucking nonchalance in face how Sabini’s breaking bones would wetly slosh and snap under his bare hands.

“So? What do you say?” Sabini asks, totally fucking oblivious.

But Alfie is a reasonable man. And this is a reasonable decision. He lovingly stores the vision in the back of his mind and strokes his beard, nodding a little.

“Well, Tommy Shelby you say, yeah? I reckon we could do without him.”

In all truth, they could. Hell, they have. And then that gypsy boy, beaten black and blue, strolled into Alfie’s office like he owned the place and said that Alfie was losing a war. With blood dripping down his chin. The fucking nerve. Alfie thought back then that Tommy looked absolutely unflattering like that, like his shining intellect had failed him so badly he didn’t manage to avoid having his pretty face ruined.

Alfie thinks about that pretty face as he watches Sabini leave. That face made all the difference in the day, because Alfie, right, he needed someone intelligent for once. But that gypsy head is a dangerous horse to bet on. The loving allegiance with Sabini is cursed well and over, but this devil is a much more stable one. At least that’s what Alfie keeps telling himself all next week.


	2. Chapter 2

Tommy Shelby is broken all over the place this time. He’s in a hospital. According to the Italians’ smug tales, he’s as good as dead.

“There’s a letter,” Ollie says, waving the thing as he walks into the office. He places the envelope on Alfie’s table and retreats before Alfie can reach for the note.

“Oi, boy.” Ollie stops short of palming the door handle and turns tentatively. “Who delivered this?”

“One of the Peakys. Don’t know him.”

Not one of the brothers coming to smother Alfie for having a hand in the death of their sibling. Tommy is still breathing then. Alfie does too. He waves Ollie away and moves the bottle on the table underneath it before opening the envelope.

_Disturbances in our supply chain, I take it?_

Alfie stares at the note for a couple of seconds, running his eyes over the shaky handwritten line again and again. Something bubbles in his chest. Less beer, more champagne, light and sparkly, and it goes straight up to his head, and Alfie laughs, throwing the note on the table and falling back on the chair.

***

Tommy dreams, of a labyrinth of alleys and mud splashing over his boots. His head is spinning a little. That’s all he can see—the cobblestones and mud, and his own feet that he forces one in front of the other, looking away when their movement makes him dizzy. He knows this sequence. It happened yesterday, when he stood up from his hospital bed, wrapped himself in the coat and managed somehow to get home without vomiting his insides out. Wouldn’t have been a decent sight, that.

Tommy cracks his eyes open when his fogged mind identifies two voices downstairs. One he can barely hear. The other unmistakably belongs to Arthur who is about to commit a homicide. Tommy thinks about just letting him for a moment. The sun only begins shining lazily through the drawn curtains, and whoever comes knocking at this hour deserves all circles of hell is succession. Tommy can cover one sporadic murder.

On the second thought, why is Arthur in his fucking house?

“You lay that hand on me, mate, I’ll rip it out of your shoulder and shove it down your throat,” comes a calm warning, and Tommy knows instantly.

Fuck.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly falls with the momentum, bumping into a chair as he catches himself and pushes upright. Walking with residual morphine still dulling his senses shouldn’t be hard, but Tommy feels like his veins are filled with something thick and heavy instead of blood. It’s a good thing he never resorts to running because right now he suddenly feels like he should, and it’s only habitual that he walks down the stairs without hassle, maintaining as much composure as a person with three broken ribs physically can.

Tommy doesn’t agree with Alfie Solomons, as a rule. But the picture before him, Tommy must admit, is indeed fucking biblical.

Arthur is squeezing the butt of his gun with such force that the leather is silently cracking as he’s unconsciously pushing the weapon deeper into the holster. He’s breathing raggedly into Solomons’s face, hardly ten centimeters away, tension coiling around him like a tight spring held back only by Tommy’s sudden arrival. Solomons is staring him down with monumental lack of amusement. Ringed fingers tighten on the cane for a bare second before his eyes snap to Tommy and quickly run over his frame.

“Thomas, are you completely sure you’re supposed to be vertical?”

Tommy doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Arthur.”

“He’s a fucking traitor Tommy,” Arthur spits, “he sets foot in this house he’ll fucking lay here.”

Tommy leans onto the railing and puts his hands behind him. Can’t fold them on his chest like he wants to. He gets now why that little smirk flickers inside Solomons’s beard at the wording. He should talk Arthur down, make him see reason, but he’s so tired and hurt for once that Arthur’s drama irks him straight out of neutrality. Fuck it.

“Step back, Arthur,” Tommy says and, when Arthur doesn’t move an inch, raises his voice just slightly. “You want me to drag you away from him and rip another fucking muscle?”

That hits true. Arthur stares daggers at Alfie for another moment, but it’s just for the show, he can’t be the one to let go first, never Arthur. Eventually, his shoulders slump back, he releases the gun and turns to Tommy with such naked pity in the eyes Tommy feels his own gaze turn icy. Any other day, he’d choke on his pride before pulling that card. But now the world is getting wobblier with each passing minute, and he doesn’t have time for coddling.

“Tommy...”

“Go to the Garrison, brother. You’ve got work to do, eh? I’ve got it here.”

Sometimes the Universe is strangely kind to Tommy Shelby. Arthur takes his coat and goes, mumbling something benign in the process, and it’s a gift Tommy knows he will have to pay for.

When the door slams shut, it becomes impossible to ignore Alfie’s watchful gaze any longer. It’s utterly ridiculous that it’s the first time in two months that they are alone in the same room. It should be business as usual—reconciliation after a betrayal and all that—but for some reason it’s not, and it hangs in the air, obvious and unacknowledged. Tommy raises his eyes to the ceiling, not needing, not _caring_ to meet Alfie’s eyes, and presses his lips together against the pain that’s booming by now, especially now that the immediate conflict is resolved.

He needs to put himself back together. Any second now.

“Right. Bed, now. Go on.”

Solomons approaches and takes his elbow in a firm grip before Tommy can object. Tommy’s eyes flicker to the abandoned cane at the wall, then at Solomons’s hands, as he straightens instinctively, ready to protect himself.

It’s not a sound idea by any measure. Next thing he knows, his chest flares with sudden fire, and Solomons is leading him to the couch, cursing silently, while Tommy’s trying to heave through the pain. It’s not working. It feels like his lungs are fucking paralyzed.

A large hand presses him down carefully and pushes a large pillow under his back, and Tommy closes his eyes, focusing on forcing the air in and out. There’s nothing obstructing his airways. Pain is all it is. He can deal with pain.

It stops as quickly as it started, not an eternity but mere seconds later. Tommy blinks his eyes open.

“Fucking hell, Tommy,” Alfie mutters. He’s sitting on the low table beside the couch, and there is something so raw and warm in his eyes for a second Tommy wants to punch him. He’ll take Arthur’s pity over it any day. Because this looks dangerously like concern, and Alfie’s not entitled to fucking concern directed at Tommy.

“Damn close.”

Tommy scolds himself as soon as the retort leaves his lips, because no emotion should make him lose his head like this. One rash accusation, and Solomons will drop the white flag. Maybe even finish what Sabini’s started. Tommy won’t follow in Arthur’s steps and get hurt over Solomons’s breaking promises that he’s never voiced in the first place.

Tommy shuffles higher on the couch and opens his mouth to break the instilled silence, but Alfie beats him to it, and what follows is miles away from their usual mutual avoidance of subjects that hazard to shatter the unstable peace.

“What I implied that evening you ran off back then, about sharing, yeah, that will need to happen.”

“What?”

“Sharing, mate. Being a bit more honest with each other, taking things to the next level, that’s one big fucking responsibility.”

Morphine is gone from his system by now, Tommy’s sure by the pain raging all over his body. So it must be just Alfie then. He looks at Solomons, failing to decipher whatever bullshit has just been dropped on him, ignores the way his chest started hurting again from too deep a breath and gathers all his patience. He needs this alliance. Whatever madness it comes bundled with this time, it will be easier to swallow than Sabini’s bullets.

Alfie sighs. Then he reaches into his pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes that Tommy knows Alfie never smokes. The question dies in his throat when Alfie shakes one out, holds it with two fingers and presses it gently between Tommy’s lips, cupping the other hand around the flickering fire of a lighter. Tommy’s too stunned to protest. He draws. His mouth burns where Alfie’s fingers linger for too long.

“That’s a good lad. Should clear your head a bit.”

Alfie doesn’t sit back up. He stays hunched and fixes Tommy with his composed gaze. Tommy smokes and notes mentally where Alfie’s hands are, totally fucking unnecessary observation.

“Now, I’m no fucking Shelby, all in over my head when I need to acknowledge a mistake. I fucked up, Thomas. Bet on the wrong horse, you know how it goes. Fucking uncertain with these horses, can’t trust them not to bolt or drop dead in the middle of the race. Especially when everyone knows it’s your horse, and now it’s dead, and everyone else suddenly has all those stupid animals come at you and trample you down.”

Alfie apologizes. Tommy will need some time to wrap his head around it. For now, he gives a small nod.

“Happens with horses.”

“Happens yeah, that’s what I say.” Alfie hands him the ashtray from the table, and Tommy resolutely doesn’t flinch when their hands touch. “But I have a friend now, right, he’s very good with horses. He always knows which horse will win. Bloody fascinating. Some kind of gypsy fortune-telling. So me and this friend, I thought, we could do better if we stopped crossing each other for minor financial pleasures, for good.”

Tommy has to clear his throat before he can take another drag of Alfie’s peace offering. He looks directly at Solomons now, and it doesn’t help. Alfie’s got a look in his eyes. A special kind of look. The one he wore, almost involuntarily it seemed, when he crushed Tommy into a wall, pinned his head to the cold bricks, forcing him to keep his eyes on Alfie, to _stay_ , and fucked him so hard Tommy couldn’t remember himself for a long blissful hour afterwards.

This is the look Alfie has when he can’t quite contain his determination.

“And your friend would have to be more honest with you now,” Tommy says eventually, “that you have come to this arrangement.”

Alfie nods. “Absolutely. If I don’t sell him, and he sells me, or goes and blows his fucking brains out for all I know, leaving me to shovel that rotting pile of shit, that wouldn’t be good, innit. Not gentlemanly much.”

Unless Tommy kills himself earlier, Arthur and Polly will have to fight for who gets to put him in the ground for this decision first. But Tommy knows he had made it already, before Alfie even launched into his veiled explanations. If he approaches this with a cool head, the condition won’t be that hard to meet. Tommy’s no stranger to pretending, and honesty has always been a drastically relative concept.

Tommy catches himself forgetting to blink, looking at Alfie’s face. It’s always been magnetic for some reason. Too open, in a weaponized way.

“Sounds reasonable,” he lies, watching the steely edge in Alfie’s eyes fade. “Then it’s a partnership.”

Alfie becomes big all of the sudden. He gets up swiftly, faster than a man of his build should be able to, and smiles with such little restraint it envelopes his eyes in a web of wrinkles.

“Love that head of yours Tommy,” he proclaims and leans down, and Tommy thinks for one crazy second Solomons is going to kiss his forehead. But he just reaches for Tommy’s hand and takes the cigarette that’s just started burning a neat smoking hole in the blanket underneath out of his fingers.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfie feels all sorts of conflicted when he leaves that house and gets in the car, and drives until Birmingham is a smoky stain on the horizon. It’s not past decisions that press down on his conscience. He won’t be apologetic for doing what any sensible man who knows the business would do. No, it’s not the past that bothers him, it’s the bloody future, in which his resolution to remain logical and unaffected currently hinges on the sole distance he’s putting between Tommy Shelby and his person.

Alfie doesn’t restrict his flow of thought, hell, he needs to get this out of his head before he reaches Camden Town, but unlike most of the things he contemplates during long rides, it doesn’t bring serenity.

Tommy Shelby is not simply black and blue this time, he can barely stand without opium. That tugs at Alfie’s heart, seeing him like this. But Thomas can take a beating and come back, bringing holy fucking hell upon the ones responsible. He’s like a storm in that regard, fucking unstoppable when he sets his mind to something, and damn Alfie if that resilience isn’t one big fucking turn on.

No, it’s the other side of that stoicism that bothers him. The one that makes Tommy leave hospitals of his own volition and develop that fold between his eyebrows seeing Arthur at his home, clearly showing he didn’t think asking for help was in order. Because God forbid Thomas Shelby will let anyone see him vulnerable.

That side will get Tommy killed one day, and Alfie is absolutely, positively fucking against it.

Because seeing Tommy once now, right, touching his bloody broken lips, and seeing his eyes go all blue and wild at that, that does things to Alfie. Makes him want to sit beside Shelby, pressing ice to his cheekbones until they regain their normal pale hues. Talk to him about bloody books that Alfie’s just noticed lying in a pile on the table. Fuck him slow and thorough into the night so he forgets the books and sleeps till morning for once. All the dangerous and reckless things Alfie’s been determined to continue repressing until they fade. Because Thomas Shelby is trouble, and Alfie doesn’t welcome trouble unless it’s dedicated to rain down on his foes.

Except with this new... partnership, it’s exactly the case. And as the terrain changes from woods to endless fields and then to familiar city buzz and shrouds of industrial smog, Alfie’s still grasping for a functional excuse not to indulge.

***

Rare sunshine is spilling onto London streets two days later, when Alfie takes Ollie and ventures bravely into the most decadent of places. This is a beautiful fucking day, and Alfie hates to ruin it, but business is business. And today, perhaps, a little more than that.

Sabini’s men have enough sense not to try and take his gun. Alfie is short of praying no stupid fucking commentary will occur and force his hand. That wouldn’t be good. That would shake Ollie up, and the lad is barely holding his shit as it is, when he sits down beside Alfie and eyes the ominous interior of the Italian pub as if expecting some malady to emerge from the wall. Alfie makes a note to beat that cowardice out of the boy some other day.

“Word is, you went to see Tommy Shelby,” Sabini declares, always eager to speak first.

Alfie leans back on his chair and gets on with the rambling. The men behind Sabini relax a little when words start flowing, fucking stupid of them, but Alfie’s all better off for it.

“Yeah, mate, went to see for myself how our little cultural collaboration went down. Impressive, yeah. The gypsy scum all incapacitated if you would say. Although,” Alfie punctuates, gesturing vaguely with his hand, “Shelby’s not dead. Why is Shelby not dead, mate?”

“Listen, he’ll be, all right, we don’t drop what we start. Police in that fucking town came down, we had no fucking choice. You know how it goes.”

Alfie hums.

“Yeah, mate, fucking mess that police stuff. But that gypsy, he’s breathing, right, and him, I tell you, he’s one persistent fucker. He’s sitting there like a fucking king on a fucking shit throne, and the police they’re his guard dogs, right. Dogs ‘s all they are. But there they’re not our dogs,” Alfie goes on.

Sabini pitches in, keeps the banter going, and Alfie encourages it. Sabini’s banter is nervous, he gets sidetracked by his own attempts at manipulation and insulting. Falls right in.

“So we have to get him to a place where the dogs will bark for us and will kill for us.”

“Hmm, yeah, what do you propose?” Sabini asks.

Alfie leans forward over the table between them and echoes what Tommy said once they got through all the emotional nonsense.

“Epsom, mate. Epsom’s what I’m thinking. Hear he’s laid his eyes on a new racehorse, and he’s the absolute beast.”

***

It’s hilarious and rather endearing really how easily Sabini shakes hands with the dirty fucking Jews to sate his need for revenge. That signals a bigger ego than one particular gypsy friend of Alfie’s has, and that says something. If some bloody Italian came to Alfie waving a white flag after Alfie’s own apparent fuck-up, he’d shoot the stupid bastard at the door. But Sabini is no Jew, and he lacks the wit of one, and so the whirlwind of scheming and looming overthrowing campaigns starts descending on London when their simple agreement kicks the final lock down.

Alfie’s got some real devotion this time, and Tommy’s got a plan. He’d say they’re already making a more stellar team than any two gangsters in the history of creation.

He wants to hold off writing to Thomas about the road clear for another couple of days. Knowing Tommy, he’ll jump straight into action again, and while Alfie doesn’t doubt for a second Shelby will manage to look equal parts menacing and classy and get the job done, Alfie doesn’t want him to heave through pain and opium as soon as he gets home from the auction. It wouldn’t be so fucking crucial anyway, with the Derby Day being the distant three months away. There would be other horses.

Alfie gets to the office that sunny day, fiddles with his beard while staring at the blank white sheet and puts it away until evening. He justifies it with papers to fill and visitors to see - one Martin Montague he even memorizes. Stupid fucking name and haircut, and shady intentions beneath the latter. That, or typical American stupidity, peppered with inordinate ambitions and no means to achieve them. Alfie decides to play nice until he knows.

But the papers run out, and Alfie eventually writes, cursing under his breath. Because Tommy’s brain works in mysterious ways, and Alfie knows that for some reason he wants that one particular horse. As black and dull as any other racehorse he could get. And Alfie will give it to him, in spite of how crushing his grip on the pen is. Because with Tommy, as he’s starting to learn, it’s not a matter of preventing harm, it’s entirely about controlling how hard it hits.

The horse, that Tommy will find too difficult to compromise on. But Alfie can at least relocate the consequential collapse from troubled Birmingham to someplace more supervised.

It’s a fine fucking line between forcing and blackmailing Tommy into doing something he needs for his damn survival, and pushing so hard the idea of partnership evaporates from his head for good.

So Alfie writes about the deal and then writes about some minor issues with getting the papers for the next shipment straight. He’s no good with those numbers, right, and Ollie, holy God, that boy’s got his head in the clouds half the time, can’t trust him with the books. Tommy’s presence in London as soon as the auction is done is, therefore, simply fucking critical.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. It's huge and 100% self-indulgent.

Tommy comes into the office when the night starts touching London rooftops. Almost perfect timing for what Alfie has planned. He greets Tommy in his usual flashy fashion and regards Shelby through his half-moon glasses, as the man settles down, mindful of his injuries, and lets out a breath. He’s blinking a notch too frequently, and his coat is sagging around his shoulders in a crumpled dusty mass. He looks tired alright. But the air of exhaustion that Alfie’s expected to envelop him is, for some reason, rather thin.

Can’t be a decent night’s sleep, judging by the deep lines underlining Tommy’s eyes.

“A Jew going to a gypsy to help him count things.” Tommy raises an eyebrow, looking straight at Alfie. Is his gaze a little less cracking ice tonight? “That’s a day.”

Ah, the joking. Must be cocaine then. Alfie smirks, indulging him, and suppresses the desire to rub his face.

“Seriously, Thomas, you’re not the one to inflict cultural preconceptions on people, are ya,” he responds and waves Ollie off.

The boy keeps standing in the doorway like a fucking shadow for another moment. Part of Alfie admires how completely at odds the lad is with his instruction to be “inconspicuous.” That’s some impressive bloody ability. At last, Ollie touches a finger to the slowly yellowing bruise on his cheek and walks out to do what he was told to do beforehand, apparently remembering which member of his newly established ensemble of employers is closer to home.

Tommy waits the interaction out and shifts in his seat once the lad leaves. He’s getting restless. There must be at most half an hour before he starts crashing.

“So what is it?” he asks, ever so smart.

Alfie doesn’t rise to the bait. “The papers, mate, I’ve told you. Got all shambled up while you were away with the posh folk, buying that stupid horse. But-” he pointedly continues when Shelby looks away with a huff and fumbles with the coat trying to produce his cigarettes with slightly shaking fingers. “But it took you too bloody long to get here. Now it’s too dark to see shit, even with these.” Alfie taps his glasses. “And these, mate, remember I told you, with these I can see everything.”

Tommy inhales the smoke way deeper than a man with broken ribs should and winces. “Yes, you’ve told me.”

“Right, so what I’m seeing now, Tommy, is that your car is being broken. As in, presently.”

Thank good God that Tommy maintained his usual cockiness and came to London alone again. Alfie’s grateful for that, for once. He takes the glasses off and proceeds with the usual routine of locking all the books up and getting dressed, all the while Tommy succeeds in looking utterly unimpressed.

“I will, of course, put my boys on it tomorrow, will fix it up in no time. Normal Jewish hospitality. In the meantime,” Alfie slips his hat on and leans on the table beside the still seated Tommy, “as my very much appreciated partner, you are welcome into my home.”

“I know a hotel here that’s just changed its management.”

“Now that is downright insulting, Tommy.”

Tommy looks up at him with those half-lidded eyes and blows the smoke out without turning his head away, and Alfie suddenly, desperately wants to kiss him. It’s been so long since he’s last kissed him. Fuck, possibly never, Alfie realizes to his horror, Tommy’s always been so distant that could hardly be more of an indulgent peck on Alfie’s side. Tommy leaves his mouth slightly open as he stares. The fucker.

Alfie manages to recover and let go of his grip on the tabletop by the time Tommy finishes his mysterious inspection. Speaking is apparently below him when he stands up, and it’s okay, Tommy Shelby would be the last person in all of England to explicitly accept help. Well, Alfie must admit he did employ rather forceful measures to ensure that acceptance.

“That’s a good lad.”

Tommy sways a little when he turns to leave, and there’s no real bite in his raspy voice when he retorts, “Fuck off, Alfie.”

Alfie does. That’s progress, he supposes.

They reach Alfie’s house with no protests and just a single cigarette, which should be reassuring if it were anyone but Tommy Shelby. Tommy doesn’t protest, you see, he either endures or sulks, and Alfie will only accept either of those things to a certain point. Yeah, Tommy needs a little push from time to time. And to Alfie’s knowledge, no one in that family can deliver, for all their apparent propensity towards being chaotic. So Alfie will take the part, right, nothing unusual about Tommy disliking him for a while.

Except until Sabini’s done, the obvious lack of balance in power will hang over Alfie’s peace like a fucking guillotine blade. He makes a mental note to find a way around it.

The house is dark and empty when they come in. It’s still warm, though, from when Illa left. Alfie flicks the light on and turns just in time to brace himself on the wall when Cyril bolts across the room and bumps his huge head into his knees.

“Hello big boy-” Alfie leans down to pat the dog on the head but Cyril dashes past him, sensing a stranger.

Alfie watches intently as the dog circles Tommy, paws scraping on his boots and shedding a gross mix of saliva and mud onto Tommy’s trousers. Alfie keeps his mouth shut for once. He dresses down calmly but keeps his eyes trained on the two in case things go awry faster than he can hear. Cyril was born kind, unlike many of his human counterparts, there’s no worry on that part. Probably wouldn’t bite even if someone came at Alfie with a knife raised, stupid sod. But Tommy’s not inherently stable, and Cyril is a big fucking fella.

Alfie’s concerns prove futile very quickly.

Tommy lowers himself to the floor and extends a hand towards the dog, letting him sniff his open palm. Cyril licks it instead, a sloppy fucking thing. Tommy smiles at that and pets him proper, completely indifferent to Cyril’s spewing his excitement all over Shelby’s once pristine attire. It’s barely a thing that smile, but it’s there. Alfie feels it more than sees.

Tommy mutters something to the dog in his gypsy tongue, and Cyril seems to understand, because he gives Tommy’s face a few more licks before finally retreating to the carpet in front of the fireplace and looking at Alfie with big demanding eyes.

“You’re just lovable, mate, ain’t ya,” Alfie comments in a low voice and goes to light the fireplace.

“I can charm dogs,” comes a likewise silent response as Tommy shuffles to his feet. He’s more messy somehow, throwing his coat on the couch, taking the jacket and the holster off. As if the simple interaction with something soft and living has just stripped him of the final stitches that held him together for the past two? Three days?

Alfie would be jealous but he’s only more self-conscious. It’s so easy to fuck things up now.

He gets the flame burning and gives Cyril a few automatic scratches before passing Tommy and going into the kitchen. It’s a matter of moving around now. Being casual. Not cause Alfie’s the jittery lot, he’s fine with sitting on the bloody couch, or better bed, and talking nonsense till Tommy finally falls asleep, but he knows that would feel too oppressive to Tommy now.

“Never took you for a dog person.” A lighter clicks behind him as Alfie puts the kettle on the stove.

“I killed his wop of an owner. Couldn’t leave the pup behind now, could I. He was tiny back then, if you can imagine it, all skin and bones, jumped on me like I was a fucking messiah. Nearly drowned him trying to wash all that bastard’s blood away.” Alfie moves through the kitchen in easy, practiced motions, getting the cups and tea from the shelves. Illa will scold him for messing up again, that woman. Gave him all sorts of glances when he told her not to appear in the vicinity for a couple of days too. It’s Alfie’s fucking kitchen after all, isn’t it? Alfie wonders briefly what it is with him surrounding himself with such impudent fucking people.

Tommy doesn’t move past the doorframe, leaning on it with the cigarette in hand. In the brighter light of Alfie’s calm and domestic home, he doesn’t look ragged in a charming gangster way. He looks awful. Drugs and intentional exhaustion do that to a man.

Alfie wants to pluck the cigarette out of Tommy’s fingers, because tobacco will inevitably add to the shakes, but he pulls a chair out instead, doesn’t bother to turn it the proper way.

“I get it now why you’re so good with horses then, mate.” Alfie sits down, facing Tommy, and rests his elbows on the back of the chair. “Still, they’re bloody pointless.”

“Your dog is bloody helpless.”

“You can’t demand more of him than he’s been taught. That someone taught him only to fall for kindness and live happy and not bark thirsty for blood, right, that’s not his fucking fault.” A smirk flickers on Tommy’s face, just a quick curl to his mouth. Something had to give sooner or later, and Alfie’s relieved it’s Tommy’s facade rather than legs. “Dogs are simple in that regard, ain’t nothing like humans, you know, don’t have a mind of their own.”

It’s almost meditative, looking in Tommy’s bloodshot eyes. Strange even. Alfie’s always felt comfortable with eye contact, but now it’s all over his skin, rolling over him like a cool sea wave. Alfie’s not moving much, and it’s not to appear smaller anymore, he discovers, it’s that he selfishly wants the moment to drag out for the nearest eternity.

The kettle is boiling, and neither of them gives a fuck.

Tommy lets the cigarette fall to the floor. It went out a few minutes ago. Around the time a darkening wet spot started spreading further out across Tommy’s exposed shirtsleeve, a wound reopened with the continuous movement of his arm.

He comes closer with only a fraction of his usual grace and puts his hands on the chair’s backseat, right in the free space between Alfie’s arms.

“Why am I here, Alfie?” he inquires, as if nothing else in the world matters to him this second.

Alfie laces his fingers together, brushing against Tommy’s skin. “Because your car broke down, and you can’t catch a good sleep on the street.”

“Alfie.”

“Just accept it, mate. Alright?” _Accept it you fucking idiot. Don’t start a fight we’ll both lose._ “It’s a bad omen to be questioning God’s will at this hour. If He wanted to give you some bloody rest so not to see your gypsy face around anytime soon, who are you to refuse it, hm.”

That is it. The limit to persuasion. Alfie shuts up and stares back, and breathes through the sudden overwhelming closeness of Tommy towering over him, somehow raw and finally present in the moment. Fucking finally. Pity there’s no fucking use, considering how tired, hurt, and high Tommy still is.

Moments tick away.

If Tommy decides to leave now, there’s nothing more Alfie will let himself attempt. He’s prepared for a marathon, couldn’t ever be any other way with Shelby, but no amount of wanting will make him try and leash someone who’s behaving like a helpless dog. Tommy must choose to help himself.

Even if it’s through point-blank denial this night.

Eventually, Tommy turns his gaze away, eyes the blood on his sleeve and goes to turn off the stove, from where the kettle is still spewing boiling water all around. There, Alfie decides, following suit. There is the most blazing thing about Tommy in addition to that mouth and piercing eyes. The few and far between moments of submitting to the guidance of common sense.

“You’re shit in the kitchen.” Tommy makes the tea that Alfie doubts either of them will drink. That’s quite a sight though, Tommy Shelby making tea in his kitchen at night. Alfie burns that vision into his brain just in case morning hits particularly hard and Tommy resolves to never set foot in his house again.

Alfie strokes a finger along Tommy’s arm, tracing the blood that’s already started to dry out, and Tommy doesn’t flinch.

“I blame it entirely on your distracting nature, Tommy.” Tommy’s trembling slightly under his touch. Right. Time to tie this shit. Alfie forces himself to step away and keep his hands to himself. “Come on, mate, it’s fucking late. No use loafing here like some fucking ghosts.”

Alfie’s kind of grateful for the cocaine as he escorts Tommy to the guest bedroom—why is it even a thing in his house?—because the come down seems to propel Tommy towards his absolute limit. He doesn’t struggle when Alfie steadies him on the stairs, only mumbles an incredibly reliable “I’m fine” that Alfie graciously ignores and lets his hand linger on his back when they walk to the room.

“Right, all set.” Alfie shoves the door open. “If you need something, go and get it. And for fuck’s sake, don’t wander around the house, yeah, get nice and cozy and fucking sleep.”

Alfie’s not really used to having people in his house. It’d be awkward if any accidental shooting took place. Wouldn’t encourage Tommy to visit again and shit, would it?

Alfie turns to leave when Tommy grabs his arm, and the next moment delivers something Alfie did not predict.

Because Tommy kisses him.

And Alfie’s drenched in a hot fluttering sensation before he can pull his wits together and remember he’s not a fucking lad anymore. It doesn’t help much when he does. Tommy’s kissing him with unforeseen fervor, running his hands over Alfie’s jaw, down his neck, and Alfie finds himself kissing back, because it’s sudden and it’s mad and it’s fucking _happening_.

He pushes Tommy against the wall next to the open door and nudges his lips open with his tongue, hungry for contact. Tommy gasps, his nails scraping the back of Alfie’s neck, drawing him closer. Alfie loses it for a second. It’s an intoxicating feeling, having his hands all over Tommy’s rigid but responsive body after going bloody months without it. Fuck, was it always so fucking spiritual? No, Alfie knows. It’s different.

And by God, he doesn’t want to stop. Another gasp hits his lips, and Alfie forces himself to remember. He breaks the kiss but stays pressed to Tommy, blocking his attempts to renew it.

“For fuck’s sake, Tommy,” he exhales, pulling just slightly away so he’s not crushing Tommy with his weight. His palm is flat on Tommy’s racing heart. Tommy licks his wet flaring lips, looking at Alfie from underneath those long fucking lashes, and Alfie does exactly what he shouldn’t do.

He kisses Tommy again. Because he can’t not to. He has to do something with this uncontainable energy, and shooting is not currently appropriate. But he manages to keep it brief this time, because Tommy’s gasps, fuck, they’re melody alright, but Alfie knows they’re not wholly ones of pleasure. Tommy just can’t fucking breathe.

“I’m all here,” Tommy rasps, clenching Alfie’s shirt in his fists.

And he’s hard under Alfie’s thigh.

And isn’t that ironic.

“Tommy,” Alfie murmurs, tipping Tommy’s head up to look in his face, “if this state of half-deadness ‘s what’s required to get you here, I’m alright with just some old-fashioned fucking stroking-hair-to-sleep action.” He disentangles Tommy’s limbs from himself, ignoring the way that fire surely goes out in his eyes. It seems for a moment Tommy won’t let go. Alfie has no fucking clue what he’ll do if Tommy holds on and persists, but it most likely won’t be very reasonable.

Tommy doesn’t hold on. He fills his lungs with air again, and Alfie doesn’t let his mind drift to how much it must have hurt when Tommy’s back met that wall. Not the fucking time.

“I want you,” Alfie continues instead, forcing his voice into that calm, matter-of-fact tone that seems to work with Shelby. “But I want you in one piece, yeah?”

Tommy cuts through his speech, voice still hoarse but not cold. Just suddenly very tired. “Go to bed, Alfie.”

By the door that closes in front of him, Alfie deducts the bed is meant to be separate. He rubs a hand over his face— _fucking finally_ —and goes. There is a ton of things to overthink, and Alfie Solomons will not bother with any. His head is strangely empty for once, almost light even, and he plans to maintain it that way until morning, when, possibly, fucking apocalypse strikes.

He makes a detour to extinguish the fire downstairs, and Cyril looks at him with big disappointed eyes.

“We let him sleep it out, mate,” Alfie mutters and scratches the dog absently. “Then we’ll see.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the longest piece of fiction I've written so far. It feels kinda crazy, especially considering we're only about halfway into this, but it's also super rewarding. Thank you for reading and staying with me throughout this debauchery :D I appreciate every single one of you.

The room is filled with smoke before it’s even ten. Repelling. Particularly on a day like this, when the air is heavy and wet with the coming rain. Fucking unbreathable. And he’s not in the fucking trenches anymore, why does he put up with this shit in his own living room?

“Morning, Alfie,” Tommy says without turning in his direction, and Alfie’s brain registers something important through the morning grumpiness.

Tommy’s here. On his couch. Smoking shamelessly.

“Morning, Thomas. Thought you’d steal the bloody car and leave before I know it.” Alfie makes his way straight to the kitchen—he needs some bloody coffee and food before he deals with this. “You gypsies are marvelous at that, ain’t ya.”

Tommy doesn’t bat an eye. “I wouldn’t get far. You’re not particularly well-liked here.”

Outrageous, that comment. Downright disrespectful. Alfie grins as he fetches the frying pan and coffee pot, and gets to preparing what Tommy is apparently only vaguely familiar with. He can see Tommy staring through the open door as he turns, cracking the eggs into the pan, but holds his tongue. It’s better to let him speak first now. At least until Alfie knows why Tommy seemingly doesn’t plan to succumb to any internal crisis.

“Don’t you have a maid?” Tommy spreads out on the couch, typically rigid posture sacrificed to accommodate the broken bones.

“Illa, yeah, told her we’ll do fine without her for a couple of days.”

That earns him a quirked eyebrow and a smirk. Good God. How long had Shelby been here before Alfie came down? He doesn’t need much time to get all sorts of thoughts into his head, that silly boy, but this... Alfie wipes his hands on the apron that he didn’t bother to put on and turns fully to meet Tommy’s gaze. Yeah, this is a shocking bloody improvement.

“It’s not like you, Alfie, to bring a murder into your house.”

“It’s not,” Alfie simply agrees. “I reckoned murder was not the worst she could witness.”

It’s not like him to bring anything into his house, really. Alfie doesn’t say that. Frankly, he tries not to think about it either. Dirty innuendos are the commodity of mornings, and Alfie’s all about tradition, right.

Not a muscle twitches on his face, but it’s a relief when Tommy looks away to skim over the table, holding a spent cigarette between his fingers. Eventually, he puts the bloody thing out in the empty cup, and Alfie thinks that maybe he will need to invest in an ashtray. It’s all going too bloody quietly for him to prevent his brain form venturing into that territory.

“You know, I’ve never been rejected twice before,” Tommy states calmly, voice hitched just slightly from how his bent position presses down on the ribs. As if sensing that the human is not as spiky as he was the previous evening, Cyril trots over and squeezes under Tommy’s fingers, demanding attention. He doesn’t turn his noise away from the tar-stained fingers. Always does when Alfie gets his pipe out once in a blue moon.

Alfie puts the kettle on for Tommy and brings the breakfast along with his coffee to the table.

“Well, mate, didn’t plan on damaging that ego of yours like that,” Alfie replies evenly, settling down. He keeps his tone lighthearted but firm. No joking for once. “But you were behaving like a fucking junkie, mate. With all that shivering and wild eyes, all battered, hideous fucking sight, alright.”

Apparently, Tommy arrived to the same conclusion while Alfie was blissfully snoring through the ungodly hours. His lips twitch, and that’s the only acknowledgment that Alfie gets. It’s enough. It’s a fucking spectacular display of maturity anyway.

Thomas leans back from his crouch, and Cyril heaves his chubby butt along, jumping on the couch and curling beside Tommy. The dog snuggles under his arm and departs to fucking nirvana when Tommy starts rubbing his thick back. Outright betrayal. Alfie observes as he eats and finds he doesn’t blame the stupid animal much.

Outside, a soft rustle begins. And it gets a little easier to breathe.

Tommy contemplates the pack of cigarettes still lying on the table for a few long seconds. He reaches for the plate instead.

***

Good things, Alfie Solomons knows, don’t last. It’s just a fluke when they happen, because the world is uniformly dark and rough the majority of those moments you get to observe it. Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard to deny himself anything when it happens to fall millimeters away from his fingertips. He shouldn’t indulge, a tiny squeaky voice in his head that sounds awfully like his father’s reprimands. And so Alfie indulges. He talks to Tommy all morning. Because Tommy was so fucked the night before, his troubled head lamped out for the night, and he finally got some sleep. And it turns out that Tommy Shelby _talks_ when he gets some sleep. And it is interesting. And dangerous.

Alfie thinks now, for a second, that maybe it would have been alright today if he’d just kept Thomas home. Too little too late for that now.

It’s pouring by the time they reach the office, and Tommy’s gaze goes icy as they make it through the mud to the door. He doesn’t say anything. It feels like Alfie’s habitual rambling just bounces off him.

Alfie ignores it as they walk across the bakery; could be a bad thought flashing through his mind. But then they reach the stairs. And Tommy’s fingers flex instinctively to clench the air before he catches it and forces himself to relax. He keeps his head low, striding down the stairs, and Alfie suddenly wants to bash the stupid head he carries on his shoulders against the wall. Tommy’s not pestered by a single bad thought. Fucking hell.

The only reason he’s never noticed it before is the fucked up frame of reference, because tense is all Tommy’s ever been around him.

Tommy gets his cigarettes out as soon as they step on the ground again, but the pack falls down. He lets out a silent breath before picking it up, striking a match, cursing when it fizzles out, shaking out another one, dropping the box-

“Tommy.” Alfie’s calm voice echoes off the narrow walls but fails to penetrate through the expanding bubble of terror. “Tommy,” he patiently repeats.

“What?” Tommy snaps, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment. The cigarette falls out of his mouth with the word, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Alfie comes closer, slowly, picks up the box with matches and gestures at the mess on the floor.

“You’re wasting a fine product here. It costs you a fucking fortune, these, did you know that?” He takes Tommy’s hand to remove the pack of cigarettes and subtly draws him closer, away from the wall. Tommy’s freezing to the touch. “Throw ‘em out all you like if you ask me, that’s nasty business, Tommy, to die of some fucking lung cancer.” Alfie gives him a cigarette and brings a lit match to his lips, dropping the box back into his coat’s pocket and placing the free hand on the back of Tommy’s neck.

Tommy’s heart is pounding violently, blood pulsating in the vein right under Alfie’s palm. Alfie uses his thumb to tip Tommy’s head up. Away from the fucking mud on the floor.

Tommy’s eyes are dim in the shaky light of the hallway. Still veiled with that terror. Alfie strokes his thumb firmly along the line of Tommy’s jaw.

“That’s what they say now, yeah, the doctors, about those tobacco sticks of death you consume.” Tommy exhales the smoke into Alfie’s face, fixed in place by his uncooperative mind and Alfie’s gaze. Alfie doesn’t turn away. He’ll breathe pure smoke for the nearest eternity if that helps pull Tommy out of that tunnel that’s crushing down on him right now. “But a man can choose his death, that’s his adult fucking right, you know, so those doctors, they can go fuck themselves with those white reports for all I care.”

Tension slowly melts away from Tommy’s frame. He’s still allowing Alfie to touch his face but the movement of his hand as he smokes is becoming less automatic. More conscious.

Alfie stops the circling motion and slides his hand to lie fully on Tommy’s shoulder.

“But you’re my business partner now, Tommy, and that abominable wastefulness will not be tolerated.”

That does it. Tommy swallows and takes a deep breath, and Alfie doesn’t stop him when he shakes the steadying hand off his shoulder. That wasn’t half as bad as it could be. Hell, that wasn’t as bad as it probably is. Alfie doesn’t gamble, but he’d bet anything Thomas isolates himself with religious dedication when war comes hammering through the walls he’s built. Never letting anyone help him, ground him.

Alfie nods reassuringly and prepares to say something else, to give Tommy a dignified way out, because as much as Alfie despises the idea that this is something other than dignified after all Tommy’s been put through, he understands it.

“Well-”

“Thanks,” a curt reply cuts him short.

And Alfie’s at loss for a mere second. Because good things end.

“Ah, I’m just selfish, ain’t I,” he finally utters, following Tommy into the office.

They speak strictly of business for the rest of the day. Or whatever it is that this calamity is rapidly morphing into. At some point, Alfie mentions Martin Montague, and Tommy listens intently, that devilish spark igniting in his eyes as he inevitably starts sorting through the possibilities, fishing for profit.

They don’t stay until late, no fucking reason to remain underground during the night. On their way out, Tommy spares his fixed car a single glance and walks past it.

***

They manage to get soaked in those seconds it takes Alfie to unlock the door. It’s been a strange ride. Everything about this day has been strange so far, from the abnormal morning to the totally normal fucking reaction that Alfie’s sure he wasn’t ever meant to see. Alfie wanders off to get the whiskey as soon as he changes into something dry, leaving the drenched clothes in a pile on the floor.

It’s a matter of time before him and Tommy spiral into something completely fucking uncharted, and Alfie’s not planning on staying entirely sober throughout it.

Rain mingles with the sound of splashing whiskey. The first drink burns down Alfie’s throat, and he takes a steadying breath before refilling it, picking up the second glass and returning to the room.

Tommy hasn’t moved much since they came in. He’s standing pressed to the back of the couch, dripping on Alfie’s carpets and staring at his watch for way longer than it takes to tell time. Normally, with Tommy, that would signal trouble, that stillness. Alfie’s missed the turning point when he got so good at seeing through the degrees of Tommy’s perpetual state of being “fine.” But he can now, like with those magic bloody glasses. He knows that, normally, Tommy is seized by something awful deep down in his head when he looks like that.

But today is not a normal day, Alfie discovers. He approaches, and when Tommy takes the offered glass, his gaze is clear and calm.

Alfie finds himself fixed in place.

“Your bones won’t thank you for those wet clothes, mate,” he says conversationally, tracing the droplet rolling down Tommy’s temple and battling through the sudden dryness in his throat.

Tommy downs the drink in two large gulps.

“Yeah?” He jerks his head slightly upwards, managing somehow to be on par with Alfie in the staring contest. Except, Alfie’s not even trying. He takes in Tommy’s face as a whole, skin glistening with water, sharp cheekbones and parted lips, and he maybe lingers on the lips a little. Tommy’s stormy gaze slides across his eyes like a razor blade. Yeah, Tommy’s blinder alright.

Fucking hell.

“Well then.” There’s suddenly a cracking bang, and the glass showers Alfie’s boots with sharp pieces as it breaks. The jacket follows, and Tommy reaches for the buttons on his waistcoat as soon as it slides off and catches on the couch. Alfie watches as his long fingers dance down, pull the shirt out of his trousers and make their way up slowly to the hollow of his throat, parting the damp striped fabric. Alfie rolls his shoulders and completes the path, landing on Tommy’s eyes that never left his.

The silence is merciless. It’s ringing louder than the rain, and if it’s not madness yet, it’s damn near close.

But Alfie’s not a gambling man.

“Why are you here, Tommy?” he asks in a low voice.

“Let’s fuck.”

“But whiskey’s for business.”

A tiny smile tugs at Tommy’s mouth.

“Yes, it is.”

And it’s gut-wrenching, what surges through Alfie that moment. He rocks forward when Tommy reaches to remove his cufflinks and flings the shirt off his shoulders, grabbing a fistful of it as he goes and forcing Tommy’s hands behind his back. Tommy yields, arching into Alfie’s wider frame.

It takes a fraction of a second.

“Business, yeah?”

Alfie’s swept with it.

“Dangerous thing, mixing business and fucking,” he throws into Tommy’s mouth before crushing their lips together, not a speck of regard for the blood he tastes, and tearing at the shirt pooled around Tommy’s waist.

The fabric rips, and it’s a distant sound. There isn’t a single thought in Alfie’s head—it’s a familiar kind of tsunami that Tommy’s witnessed before and that Tommy should be fucking terrified of. But he only shuffles to spread his legs for stability and tugs at the hem of Alfie’s trousers, rolling his hips into him.

No self-preservation in that head.

Alfie runs his hands up the bruises on Tommy’s sides, up the sharp collarbones, and grasps his hair as he nudges his head up and breaks the kiss. Tommy’s throat works to spit a pained gasp under Alfie’s other palm. He looks so disheveled. Naked. With that ruined mouth and not a flicker of his usual self-control in the eyes, squirming under Alfie’s touch.

What would that mouth look like, wrapped around Alfie’s cock? That’d shatter the last of that composure. Break something in him, probably. Alfie digs his fingers into the back of Tommy’s head. He’d fucking love to break him.

“Dangerous,” Tommy licks the blood from his lips and works his hand into Alfie’s pants, forcing Alfie to draw a sharp breath as he squeezes him roughly, “dangerous ‘s what we are.” The word rolls off his lips, accent thick and purring with arousal.

Break him unlike anyone before. Not into shards that can be glued back together. No, that’s what other people, every single one of them, did. Little people before Alfie. Too bloody incompetent heart-breakers they were, with their timid gazes and good intentions, and only dim fire to spare. Scratched the surface, never got deep enough but just managed to leave that awful shrill, like a nail on the glass, inscribed into Tommy’s bones.

They lose the clothes somewhere along, stumbling towards the couch, mouths clashing. It’s instinctive somehow, to get Tommy fucking horizontal, unharmed. Alfie hates it.

Because Alfie’d grind him into the fucking glass powder.

Get under his skin, and under those screaming bones, and then right into his heart. And that wouldn’t be business.

The silence is laced with buzzing heat and quiet groans now. Tommy bites his lip, muting the moans, and Alfie grabs his jaw, forces his mouth open as he pushes inside, suddenly starved for that voice. Tommy’s rarely loud. He’s loud now.

He lets out a throaty moan and stubs his fingers into Alfie’s muscles, trying to pull him down, bury Alfie’s face into his shoulder. Alfie’s got enough sense left not to indulge it. There will be enough bruises, no need for a punctured lung. He captures Tommy’s hands instead and presses them to his own chest, holds them there, looking Tommy in the eye, and for a second it seems Tommy will stop him. His hands flinch as if burned, and he tenses around him so suddenly Alfie can’t contain a gasp.

He keeps fucking him, fast and deep, and strokes Tommy’s arms all the way to his shoulders, watching for a reaction, and he’s rewarded with a silent broken sigh.

Tommy looks scared for a moment.

And something wild and proud roars in Alfie’s chest at the sight of it. He drags Tommy into a long kiss and works him fast and firm before Tommy gets a chance to sink back into his head.

His own orgasm catches him soon after, but all Alfie knows for a few long moments is that shaky sigh and clear, splashing blue.

They drink and fuck the evening out, moving to Alfie’s bedroom at some point. The starved touches that Tommy allows when they simply lie next to each other are not discussed. He smokes and talks about finding a way to get Alfie’s rum into America, and Alfie traces the streaks of yellow and blue on his chest, listening to the rumble of words beneath his hand.

Alfie’s fingers are still warm and tingling when his eyelids grow heavy, the whiskey taking the better of him, and he blinks ever so slowly. The next time he opens his eyes, Tommy’s panting under his hand before slapping it away and getting up, swaying a little. It takes a moment for Alfie’s brain to put it together. Must’ve drifted off too, just to be jerked awake by a nightmare.

“Do you have anything? Morphine?” Tommy asks roughly, before Alfie can say anything.

Alfie does. The scent of smoke still lingers in the room when Tommy takes the offered vial and slips out into the hallway. Alfie crushes whatever starts rising inside his chest and forces his head back onto the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

Blackbirds mark the end of that night early, and Tommy doesn’t move for a few minutes, listening to them sing through the rain. It’s still dark. Then again, it’s London.

Everything hurts when he gets up, throws some clothes on and stumbles to the bathroom. It’s a deep-seated pain of tossing all night and knocking himself out with morphine, not one of Alfie’s doing. No, Alfie kept catching himself all evening, smoothing his touches when he started slipping into a rougher handling. As if Tommy were a fucking crystal vase.

The water is bone-chilling, and Tommy doesn’t bother opening the hot tap. Hell, he needs something to wash the night off him. Shock him into waking up completely. It’s still scraping at the corner of his mind, clawing at him through the shimmering morning—shovels and muffled screams, and ringed fingers wrapping around his throat until he can’t breathe in, choking on the dirt. At least he managed to leave after that first blurry nightmare, sparing himself the embarrassment of letting Solomons see him like that.

Tommy thinks of everything at once and nothing in particular when he gathers enough of himself to go downstairs and get a drink before Alfie wakes up. He ends up having two. Slowly, the heat creeps back into his bones, pushing the pain away, and Tommy lights a cigarette, running a hand over Cyril’s gigantic head.

It should all return to normality now. Business and fucking, detached and professional, as it has been from the start. Tommy said the right words and looked at Alfie the right way that evening, and it was enough for Alfie to break whatever fucking resolution he was holding. Tommy flushes the details from his mind. The memory of Alfie’s feverish kisses. The sucking sensation that warps his chest at the thought of Alfie’s fingers caressing his jaw, his shoulders, while Solomons’s rambling some characteristic nonsense with a witty pay-off that makes Tommy’s lips jerk in a smile. All those remnants of one lingering mistake.

They will get back in the loop now.

The smoke clubs in the air when Tommy exhales forcefully. He barely finishes that first cigarette when a door upstairs creaks open and slams shut, a thunderous sound in the morning quiet. Alfie’s ruffled when he comes down.

“Morning, Tommy,” he mumbles and lands a quick kiss on Tommy’s temple as he passes, trying to maneuver around the couch and get to the kitchen without bumping into anything.

Tommy leans away without thinking and winces a little when a bruise on his thigh presses into Cyril’s heavy paw. Alfie’s not fully awake yet. It’s the only thing that explains this painful domesticity when Tommy follows him into the kitchen to make some tea, and Alfie stands way too close after fetching his coffee pot.

“You alright, Tommy?” Alfie asks, filling the pot and halting when he takes a towel to wipe the spilled water.

“Fine.”

He’s always fine. Alfie should know that by now. But evidently it’s a hard concept to grasp, because Alfie turns to him fully and brushes a hand down Tommy’s arm, and Tommy flinches purposefully this time, because this—this is not the arrangement.

Alfie stills. He suddenly looks completely awake.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“No,” he repeats, turning to his coffee pot after a moment and picking the towel again for some reason.

A new tension settles in his shoulders, and Tommy smothers a sigh. Jesus fucking Christ. Alfie couldn’t make it easy, could he. He’s sulking now, but leaving it alone when it comes to Solomons is like storing gunpowder beside a bonfire. Tommy still remembers how easily he flies into rage when he wants to make a point. The only way to survive it with all parties intact is to blow it off yourself.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” Tommy asks, letting exasperation into his voice for a good measure.

A match is struck, and it’s enough.

“What’s wrong,” Alfie huffs, “what’s fucking wrong, yeah?” He throws the towel onto the counter and turns fully to fix Tommy with a sharp angry stare. “You were moaning on my fucking couch twelve hours ago, and now I’m the fucking villain, forcing Tommy Shelby to show a scrap of fucking emotion.” He’s coming closer and closer, and Tommy straightens his back, refusing to look away. Alfie’s outburst was the purpose of the question, but now Tommy feels the coldness freeze his muscles as anger rises inside him in response.

“I don’t owe you any fucking emotion, Alfie,” he says sharply, taking a step towards Solomons. It’s far from smart, he knows, but he’s suddenly overcome with it, and words start flowing. “You couldn’t just fuck me. You wanted to try and fix me, eh? Like I was some fucking broken thing it was your duty to mend-”

“Oh fix you?” Alfie cuts him off and barks out a laugh. “Fucking optimistic that claim, mate. You never thought, have you, that someone could take you as you are, right, just as you are, just be fucking kind to you because you’re as deserving of this kindness as any next fucker. No, Thomas Shelby, so fucking full of his misery you whore yourself out to people who hurt you, as if you had no fucking value, you stand there and act like a fucking spooked dear when someone doesn’t take advantage of that behaviour.” Alfie is screaming into his face now, and Tommy’s too stunned to interrupt his speech. “Surfeit yourself with that self-destruction by your own hand if you wish, mate, cause I, right, I fucking refuse to have it on mine.”

It’s like he’s pinned with that stare, and he can’t run away from it, can’t snap a retort, can’t even turn his head away. Alfie is still fuming. It’s a miracle he hasn’t slapped Tommy in the face yet, and that’s fucking unfortunate, because it would be so much simpler. It would give Tommy a way out. Force Alfie to contradict himself, show vividly that people are the same, despite whatever sentimental nonsense he’s fucked into his head after one night. Tommy almost decides to provoke it. He’s sure he can.

Alfie’s anger burns out as quickly as it started. He props his hands on his hips and looks past Tommy, into the wall behind him, breathing in deeply. Tommy tries to breathe too. His lungs are paralyzed with the sudden naked truth in Alfie’s words. He knows that moment he won’t do anything, too late for that, might as well keep his composure up and act like an adult.

Tommy clears his throat. Well, that was an explosion alright. Warrants another cigarette. “So what now, Alfie?”

_Because you’ve just ruined all I fucking knew._

Alfie’s not too keen on answering. He paces a little, restless as ever, and curses when a loud ringing breaks the silence. The moment is spent when Alfie picks up the telephone, and Tommy gets that cigarette before anything else happens.

It happens sooner than he expects.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Alfie’s booming voice splashes another wave of pain into Tommy’s starting headache. Alfie listens for a while, and when he speaks again, his voice is deceptively calm. “Ollie, you’re a fucking idiot, you know that. You touch that woman again, I will cut your stupid fingers off and make her a necklace out of them, you understand? Good. Invite her in and pour her a damn drink. We’re coming.”

Tommy smokes and waits, as Alfie puts the phone down and goes to take a swig straight from the whiskey bottle on the table, avoiding Tommy’s eyes.

“Tommy, you’re so problematic,” he eventually sighs.

Tommy smirks, and it’s gone the next second.

“You’ve just told me.”

It’s not a solution, but it’s a break. And Alfie doesn’t look so pissed anymore, which shouldn’t concern Tommy, but it tugs at his heart with something resembling gratitude.

Alfie wipes the whiskey from his beard with the back of his hand.

“Ada Shelby stopped by. You didn’t let them know you were not coming, did you, you silly boy.”

Shouting does not resume. Instead, Alfie stands in his way as they leave the house and speaks in a much more measured and even tone.

“I propose we leave it here, yeah? That fucking chaos that’s just erupted. Just lock it here.” He’s standing close but pointedly not touching Tommy. Tommy doesn’t let disappointment make its way to his heart. He nods a little.

“Agreed.”

***

Ada is not amused. She rushes to her feet and grabs her purse when Alfie and Tommy come in, clearly not intending to stay at the office much longer.

Alfie offers her a smile as she skims over him, lips pursed. “Miss Shelby, I profusely apologize for my boys’ obnoxious behaviour. You are welcome at this bakery any time. Day and night. However,” Alfie puts a hand out to Ishmael and, after the man places a small gun into his palm, returns it to Ada, “we do have a rather strict policy on weapons here. I’m sure you understand.”

Ada returns the gun into her purse and looks Tommy in the eye, completely disregarding Alfie’s rant.

“Well, I guess Arthur overreacted. Again.” It doesn’t escape Tommy how she scans his face quickly, as if searching for injuries. None are visible below his collar at this point.

“Hello, Ada,” Tommy responds calmly and gestures at the half-empty glass of rum on the table. “How did you like your drink?”

“Average,” she shoots back. “I assume that’s why you failed to appear home after buying that horse. How did you name it?” So she thinks he stayed to do business. Convenient.

Tommy clasps his hands in front of him, feeling the eyes of every man in the room dart between him and his sister. Causing drama with no regard for people around when she’s mad at him, yes, that’s Ada alright. The only difference is that now Alfie Solomons is standing by his side, watching, cataloguing everything, and Tommy doesn’t have the time to unravel what Ada is holding against him this time.

He lets the question sink.

“What are you doing here, Ada?” he asks, and Ada huffs, rolling her eyes and pulling the coat tighter around her shoulders.

“Being a post-girl, apparently. May came to collect the horse. I went to see Polly, and they were having a little crisis about your whereabouts. Arthur suggested Mr. Solomons here had already strangled you and thrown you in the cut, so they could expect the body to show up anytime soon.”

Alfie grins at that. They would get along with Ada. Not that they would ever need to meet again.

Ada continues, “Him and John wanted to come down themselves, but there was no need, I was returning anyway.”

Ah. They said she couldn’t come then. To defy anything resembling orders, Ada would even fall as low as to see Tommy of her own volition. The thought tastes bitter. Tommy clears his throat.

“Thank you. For the message.”

Ada brushes a rogue strand of hair from her face. She bites her lip, an unconscious thing, and looks around briefly, assessing the number of strangers around. Tommy keeps looking at her, trying to catch her gaze. Not here, he wants to convey. Whatever it is, this is not the place. Finally, he succeeds, and at the tiny jerk of his head, Ada sighs.

“May didn’t look like she came for the horse, Tommy. So maybe it’s time to come back.”

With that, she gets going, and Tommy doesn’t move until the echo of her heels fades completely.

“Right, fuck off, all of you. I’ll deal with you later.” Alfie closes the door behind Ishmael and the boys and turns to Tommy, arms folded on his chest. There’s no accusation in his eyes when Tommy looks up. Why would there be? And why the fuck is it so hard to look at him right now?

“You’ve got one volatile family there, Tommy,” he says, and Tommy clenches his teeth. He needs to get this over with and get to work. It doesn’t help that Alfie’s effectively blocking the door with his bulky body, not threatening but not letting him go either.

Sharing, Tommy remembers. The condition of this mad partnership that he landed himself into. No room to fuck around.

“May is training my horse, she’s got connections with the board. If you want to ask, just ask.” But Alfie can’t, can he. It’s a no-win scenario for him because speaking will inch too close to reanimating their morning conversation.

Alfie contemplates that for a moment, stroking his beard.

“How _did_ you name the horse, by the way?”

The light in the office is dim, but it feels like Alfie can see everything. Maybe it’s the lingering effect of those glasses of his. Or maybe Tommy allows it. He meets Alfie’s gaze steadily and approaches, laying a hand on the door handle.

“Dangerous.”

It feels like gambling, the blood that rushes through his veins and the razor-sharp focus on Alfie’s eyes, the micro expressions on the face so close to Tommy’s he can feel a warm breath on his lips. It’s not a gambling matter. It’s business. He doesn’t know how it’s come to feel this way.

An eternity later, Alfie hums and moves from the door. Tommy opens it, trying to not think of anything. But Alfie’s voice catches him right over the threshold.

“Get that license, Tommy,” he drops casually, but his gaze is firm.

Tommy leaves without a word.

***

The visit to Dangerous—and May—that day becomes one of the many that follow. The horse stays healthy, and the smile on May’s face starts appearing every now and then when Tommy puts his cap on the table and puts his hands on her, and puts a small soft smile on his face when she’s looking. It’s easy. He knows exactly what she needs. And she, with all that bored intelligence, probably has a good idea about what he wants.

“It’s business,” Alfie sums up one evening, when Tommy’s smoking on his couch, letting him lean on his shoulder. Alfie does a lot of leaning these days. A lot of casual, unnecessary touching that occurs when they are not fucking, and it’s the new routine they wordlessly scramble from the shards of the old one.

Tommy feels like he’s breaking apart slowly, like a piece of something he’s spent years building is stripped away with Alfie’s every kiss, and he thinks that maybe this will finally do him in. But it doesn’t. Instead, Tommy starts finding himself laughing sometimes, during those short and rare moments of leaning and talking. It sounds odd to his ears. But Alfie, for some reason, likes it, judging by how bright his eyes go every time Tommy smiles. There isn’t space in his mind to ponder on it now, so he locks it away.

It’s unnatural how smoothly Tommy manages to split these weeks between Birmingham, Camden Town and May’s mansion. He feels it in the air, a storm gathering, luring him in with the seductive calm, waiting for him to misstep. It would be so easy to take everything out of this time. Offers appear, opportunities spring from minor and considerable places, and he turns most of them down. The ones he doesn’t burn he puts on a high shelf, earning piercing glances from Polly and pissed outbursts from Arthur, both of which he resolves to ignore as long as possible.

The Derby Day is barely a month away. If they all plan to survive, he cannot divert his attention.

The strategy gives a crack when he returns from the stables one evening and finds the office filled with Shelbys in various degrees of unrest. Polly and Arthur are smoking, John is sitting on the edge of the table, fumbling with a piece of paper. He is resolutely ignoring Esme, who’s standing by the wall with arms crossed on her chest and trying with brutal devotion to burn a hole in the opposite wall with her stare. Her eyes snap to Tommy first when he enters.

“What a warm welcome,” Tommy mutters, checks his watch briefly and makes his way to the table, shaking off his coat and looking at John wordlessly until he hops off the tabletop, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“We’ve received news from London,” Arthur finally speaks up, as Tommy leans on the table and gets a cigarette.

Of course. It just had to blow.

“Solomons called while you were away. John wrote everything down, cause there were names we didn’t know. Didn’t wanna mess ‘em up, did we, John boy.” That earns an eye roll from Polly, but she’s not trying to extinguish Arthur’s anger. Tommy will have to speak then.

“We just don’t know what’s going on,” John pacifies. “We know you have a way of not telling us things. But it’s been too long, Tom.”

“Right.” Tommy ignores Arthur and looks at John. “What did Mr. Solomons say?”

“He made a deal-”

“Why don’t you just tell us everything?” Esme chips in. “Or there’s more than one thing you’re hiding from your family?”

The words hit Tommy like a bucket of ice water. His heart skips a beat, a hollow sensation in his chest. He looks at Esme through the thin pillar of smoke, barely hearing John’s attempts to reprimand her, and she stares right back, spiky and defiant.

She can’t know. Rationally, there’s no way for her to know. Esme gets hurtful when she’s upset. Tommy smothers the jolt of panic and makes a mental note to talk to her.

“Yeah,” he confirms evenly, taking another drag. “There’s more than one thing.”

It’s not a bloody surprise to anyone. He just needs to wait out the irritated mumbling and keep his hands from reaching to rub the nonexistent teeth marks on his throat. He’s the only one who knows, Tommy repeats to himself, focuses on this thought.

Finally, gazes are averted, and silence settles in once more. Tommy clears his throat.

“About a month ago, Mr. Solomons received a business offer, from a man named Martin Montague. He’s got contacts in America, people who wish to import whiskey and rum from Solomons’s distilleries. The deal that John refers to was made between Solomons and Montague to get a direct link to his American clients.” Tommy reaches behind him and puts the cigarette out, drawing a breath when his ribs protest at the turn. “When the time comes, Shelby Brothers Limited will be doing business with Mr. Solomons, on more consistent grounds.”

Arthur is not satisfied with that answer. “Right, that’s till he takes the American’s offer for real and signs that fucking thing with your blood. Since when do we trust him, Tommy? Hmm? He sold you to Sabini’s cutthroats-”

“And he’s signed a deal with me, with Sabini’s blood.” Arthur huffs at the retort, raking a hand through his hair. Bending but not buckling yet. Tommy presses, “Sabini is done, Arthur. Think about it. Who’s gonna take his chair, eh? They’ll all come tearing at each other’s throats when he goes down, and believe me, no one will be eager to make peace with the Jews after they openly betray someone so powerful. We’ll be the only ones there, Arthur. Solomons will _welcome_ us to take that chair. There’s nothing more to it.”

Tommy keeps his arms open and posture relaxed, but words are spinning in his head. One badly phrased assertion, and they will inevitably ask why Solomons is helping with Sabini at all. And the answer to that is not something Tommy wants to contemplate. Not now and not ever. They’re on thin fucking ice already.

Esme is the first one to storm out, skirts flailing, and John follows, nodding a little and mulling the toothpick between his fingers. As if some spell breaks with their departure, the tension in the room clears. Arthur paces for a second longer, still boiling on the inside, but eventually, he concedes too.

“Don’t feel right, trusting fucking Solomons,” he grunts before throwing his cigar into the ashtray and leaving, shoulders squared and hands still curled into fists.

Polly doesn’t dignify his departure with a glance. Her eyes are boring into Tommy, a false small smile ghosting over her lips. She walks up to him slowly, and it only now occurs to Tommy that she didn’t say a word during the whole chaotic meeting.

“Is Solomons a gambling man?” she asks, arms folded. That throws Tommy off balance, just for a moment.

“He has bookies on Sabini’s racecourses.”

“Yes, but is he a gambling man?”

Tommy sighs and rubs his eyes. “No. He’s not a gambling man.”

“Then why are you playing with him?”

Tommy opens his mouth to respond. He knows the answer to this, got it rehearsed, burnt into his brain for his own sanity. But the words fail to come out, stifled by a sharp realization. It drills right through the facade, suddenly animated by Polly’s penetrating gaze, and Tommy can’t contain it, he’s flooded with it.

He trusts Alfie.

“We’re not playing, Pol. We’re using each other,” he says a moment later, and Polly raises an eyebrow at the poor lie but doesn’t argue.

He trusts Alfie. How fucking delirious was he to ignore it for so long?

“That arrangement that you have, it compromises him in some way, I assume. He feels empowered by it now. What will you do if he starts feeling threatened?”

Tommy can’t miss a beat on this one. “I’ll kill him,” he replies and forces his eyes to align with hers.

He will kill Alfie, and then he will take the same gun and put a bullet in his own head, for ever allowing this madness to begin.

Polly glares at him for another moment. She’s always been the only one who could stare Tommy down, undeterred by his coldest expressions. He doesn’t let her do it now, holding his ground with every ounce of indifference he has left. Endless moments later, her gaze softens, and she presses her lips into a thin line before breaking the eye contact and stepping back.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to this,” she says quietly and leaves, and Tommy sags against the tabletop once the door closes, hanging his head and letting out a breath.

His skin is suddenly crawling with crushing disgust, and he clenches his teeth. He’s said too much. Let Alfie see too much. Let him touch and talk and laugh his way into Tommy’s soul, and now Tommy’s guard is not down, it’s fucking stone cold dead, letting that trust build up and pour right through like a fucking river.

Tommy kicks the table, and the lamp topples over the edge, the bulb bursting into shards as it meets the floor. Could he take one and cut this nagging feeling of vulnerability out? He almost tries. His heart is beating so rapidly it would only take a little cut for it to splatter all over.

Then Alfie’s calm muffled chuckle glides through the haze.

_You’re my business partner now, Tommy, and that abominable wastefulness will not be tolerated._

Stupid fucking thing to say. Tommy smirks despite himself, can’t control it. He lets the memory wash over him, Alfie’s steadying hand on his nape, warm and large, and unjudging, encouraging him to breathe slower. It would be fucking pathetic to fly into panic for one unrestrained emotion, but it’s just a catalyst. Those are weeks of growing stress and uncertainty that are shaking his body now. And Tommy knows better than to let them linger.

He picks the lamp up and goes to retrieve his coat, for once leaving the work for another day. He needs to deal with this stupid breakdown before he comes down to London to meet Alfie again in two days. He needs to unwind and fucking sleep, and neither will be possible if he stays in the office.

The small half-circles on Tommy’s palms almost fade by the time he reaches the Garrison. And an hour later, intrusive thoughts start dimming too, pushed back by the whiskey and chatter. They don’t leave him as surely as it was that one time he accidentally fell asleep in Alfie’s bed and woke up to the bright sun instead of the shovels. But it’s good enough. It has to be.


	7. Chapter 7

London is shining off the glistening cobblestones, air crispy and alive with the spring chill. It’s the kind of day that seduces people onto the streets, fills life with wrinkles around the eyes and a careless _thump-thump_ of a ball rolling in mud, chased by several pairs of small feet.

But today, it’s a quiet day. Today, London is watching through the creaks in drawn curtains as Tommy Shelby strides London streets alone, cigarette in hand and a peaked cap hiding his bright eyes. There is no man to shield him. This close to Epsom, there was no man to spare, and Tommy wasn’t about to ask Alfie for an escort from the fucking docks. It’s a calculated risk, one he has to take.

At Farringdon, Tommy buries one hand in the pocket of his trousers and looks up briefly, taking in the lonely street ahead. By now, every dog in London knows that Alfie Solomons is partnering with the dirty Birmingham gypsies. It’s a part of a complex web of lies and treaties that everybody knows must allow Sabini to destroy the invaders more efficiently. More publicly. To strike now would be to defy Sabini, in a way. He should be safe for the next two weeks. Until the races.

Tommy reaches Midland Road before the feeling of unease cements itself with a flicker of something in the window of a flower shop at the corner. It’s too brief to discern, but Tommy knows better than to dismiss it. He closes his fingers around the gun in the pocket and walks faster, glancing at the windows of cars as he passes, trying to catch a reflection.

There are three men behind. Right as rain, they rush to keep up, barely trying to conceal the pursuit. Shit.

Tommy’s breathing is still without a hitch when he takes a turn to a wider street, steering clear of narrow alleyways. The odds are not fatal, especially considering he only needs to kill two of them. He can get through this if he keeps his head cool.

Something nudges at his mind. Was it three in the flower shop window as well? It’s too late now to care.

Tommy ignores the approaching footsteps and paces himself until the turn, the final turn that will open the direct route to Camden. One alley and he’ll be on Alfie’s territory, where London won’t observe silently anymore. Barely thirty meters away. Five. He dashes around the corner as swiftly as he can, pulling the gun and cocking it.

A blow is so sudden it blinds him for a second.

Tommy kicks instinctively, mind diverted from the men behind, but misses narrowly. Someone throws him into the wall, and he manages to land a single shot as he turns, before the gun is sent flying from his grip, his attackers catching up like a fucking hurricane.

Tommy fights violently, but there are just too many hands grasping at him.

A short scream echoes of the walls when a fist slams into his ribcage. His vision flashes white for a second, body wrenching to knock the air back into his lungs. The momentary halt is enough. The next punch sends him hurtling to the ground, and Tommy pushes back up, reaching for his cap only to find it’s not there anymore. Instead, his fingers bump into smooth metal.

“ _Bastardo,_ ” someone hisses above and grabs his coat, pulling him down sharply, forcing Tommy to collapse on his back and look at his assailants.

There are three guns trained on him, and one man is leaning on the wall, cradling his bloodied jaw. The fifth one lies where he fell, silent and motionless, blood soaking his shirt on the stomach.

Damn right there weren’t three.

“This is not from Sabini,” the leader spits and cocks the gun.

Tommy stares blankly as the man levels the barrel with his face. No room for fighting. He won’t even make it to his feet before a bullet is lodged in his head.

The man’s finger slides down, almost lovingly, curls around the trigger, and Tommy looks at his face, open now that he lost his hat in the fight. He’s going to shoot. It’s right there in his eyes. He’s going to shoot now, and Tommy is going to die.

Tommy feels the mad, adrenaline-spiked rhythm of his heart settle. The time stops, and it’s not relevant anymore. There is just one minute left, and it’s going to drag on forever, and when it runs out, he will finally be free.

The shot makes his whole body jolt, hands coming up in pure reflex, and Tommy blinks rapidly, trying to see through the blood seeping into his eyes.

“I repeat, do not move! Police!”

What the fuck.

A body slumps down next to him, and Tommy scrambles to his feet, trying to take stock of the situation. It’s disorienting, with the blood pouring from his head, but he’s not dead, can’t be. He wouldn’t have heard the shot.

As the patrol storms over them, the three Italians are sent fleeing, but no one launches to chase them. The man who was about to shoot Tommy is convulsing on the ground, blood expelling out of his torn neck in thick heavy bursts.

“Mr. Shelby?”

Tommy wipes his face and turns to the officer who holsters his gun and looks steadily at Tommy, no regard for the man he’s just shot, dying on the pavement. Tommy considers his options. The policemen, all six of them, are closing off on him, but their commander gestures to them to lower their weapons. Not on Sabini’s payroll then, he wouldn’t risk killing other Italians for this.

“Are you new here?” Tommy asks and coughs as he goes to pick up his gun and shove it into the holster. Where the hell is his cap?

“There are two bodies at your feet, Mr. Shelby. One of them might even survive to give an account of whose gun put that bullet in his stomach.”

There it is, beside the wall. Tommy picks it up, razors blades tinted with red. That explains the blood still trickling down his forehead; must’ve cut himself on his own blades when the Italian shoved him into the wall.

“Please, come with me to the station.”

“You must be new, otherwise you’d be more mindful of who you save.” The officer smiles at that. Then, he steps over the body of the now-silent dead man, and levels his gun at the head of the unconscious Italian with the ripped stomach, eyes settled on Tommy’s.

The officers don’t try to interfere.

Tommy quirks an eyebrow. “If you need a witness for your extremely unprofessional act, be quick. I’m late for a meeting.”

“Inspector-” one voice tries weekly to interject just to be cut by a sharp retort.

“Shut up, Andrews.”

Station Inspector. The gears in Tommy’s head start spinning.

“Mr. Shelby, your appearance in this city adds to its many blemishes, and you’re not yet a particularly ingrained stain. Do not believe I will hesitate.” The man’s hand is unwavering, his gun already cocked. “Will you accompany me to the station?”

Ruthless, calculating, vaguely immoral. Tommy almost can’t believe his luck. When he looks around to assess how severely outnumbered he is, it’s just for show.

“Well, Inspector, it will be my pleasure. There are some things I would like to discuss with you.”

The man nods, ghostly smile still on his lips, and pulls the trigger.

***

Alfie envisions their first meeting this week just once, but it’s a vivid fucking picture. It’s almost uncomfortable how he’s grown to want Tommy’s physical presence near, but Alfie classifies the feeling as mundane and generally harmless when left alone. They see each other much more frequently now, after all. It’s just a habit. And Alfie, with a glaring lack of reservation and with the true air of solid Jewish confidence, collects every benefit this habit spews.

Namely, he plans to close the door, press Tommy against it and kiss him senseless. It’s simple really.

When Tommy doesn’t come at ten, Alfie still clings to this vision. When an hour passes, Alfie sends his men to the docks, no bloody idea why Tommy didn’t just take the car this time. When nothing turns up in two hours, Alfie feels a freezing chill rush down his spine and throws his coat on, the warm picture in his mind now replaced with far more gruesome possibilities of reunion.

He doesn’t make it out the door. Tommy Shelby marches in with rusty remnants of blood all over his face, looking utterly unperturbed, and Alfie… Alfie loses it a little.

“Fucking hell, mate,” he sighs deeply, as Tommy closes the door, removes his blood-stained cap and reveals the absolute mess that his hair is. He’s moving fine. There’s barely any pain in his face when he rolls his shoulders and flicks some dust off his coat. “Can you at least try to look decent for once? It’s a professional fucking setting, you know. What, they don’t have running water at that gypo caravan of yours?”

He can’t stop running his mouth for the love of him, even when Tommy clutches his lapels and brings their bodies flush together. There’s a sharp glint in his eyes that makes Alfie even more worried; Thomas is never the one to initiate casual cuddling. He wraps his arms around Tommy’s shoulders and furrows his brow when Shelby doesn’t recoil from that.

“They bash you over the head, love?”

“Yeah,” Tommy smiles and leans in to kiss him. “Just a little.”

Fair enough.

Alfie wants to wonder about that, because it’s important, right, he’s not above admitting that it is to him, but speaking is rather inconvenient. He gives up, carding a hand through Tommy’s hair and revelling in the feeling of hot dry mouth crushing his with uncharacteristic demand. He could spend fucking hours like this. Tommy seems content to let him slip a hand inside that jacket, kiss him with his whole body as Alfie does when he has the time, and this enthusiasm is like a gift from God himself. It would be sinful not to indulge.

A fit of laughter right behind the door makes them break the kiss and still for a moment. No one would ever barge in, Alfie’s made sure of that after a couple of rather unfunny accidents. But the habit is still ingrained in Tommy.

“Is that your blood?” Alfie mutters against his lips, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, and Tommy relaxes again, returning his attention to Alfie. “‘s fucking disgusting anyway. But at least I’d know I’m not licking some bloody wop.”

“It’s mine. Got cut on me own razors.” Tommy looks up, and Alfie touches a long but shallow cut on his forehead.

“Well, it was bound to happen, ain’t it, fucking barbaric, that method of yours.” Tommy huffs, dropping his hands to rest on Alfie’s hips and almost leans into the touch when Alfie smooths a gentle hand down his cheek one final time. “Right, tell me what happened. You’re fucking beaming, might explode my bakery at this rate.”

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you, Alfie.”

“Fuck off.”

Tommy smiles as he lets Alfie out of his arms and slumps down in the chair. Whatever brawl he’s just got into, it made him less jagged for some reason. And not in the way that pain and stress did. Alfie goes to fetch the documents for Tommy to sign, better get the paperwork out of the way first, and smiles quietly. Yeah, he’s sure as fuck happy to see this gypsy face.

“Some Italian bastards tried to kill me, but those were not Sabini’s men. He must have some rivalry going on the inside. Now, they’re sensing his demise, and they start circling.”

“Did you kill them?” That could be a problem.

Tommy finishes checking the figures and signs the documents, getting up as soon as the pen leaves the paper. Alfie follows, grabbing his cane. Tommy’s about to run off and get himself in some more trouble, and there isn’t a chance in hell Alfie will let him do it alone.

“In fact, no. A copper did. Shot two of them in the head.” Tommy rubs his hands together in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe away some of the blood. “He’s a new Station Inspector, who’s currently under the command of Chief Inspector Garner.”

“Well, Garner’s a boring fellow,” Alfie says, trying to see what Tommy’s getting at.

“He’s quite unremarkable, yes. Except this recent habit of his, to play golf with Churchill on Tuesdays. See, Churchill, as I’ve been told, doesn’t like golf, and he doesn’t strike me as someone who would enjoy Chief Inspector Garner either. Which means,” Tommy puts his cap on and swipes along the edge carefully, making sure it sits properly, “Garner is losing his grip. And if he presents a plan which bottles this debauchery, Churchill might just agree to whatever means it requires.”

Alfie feels like his whole body starts buzzing. Tommy’s got something wild in his eyes, and if there were any doubts about the meaning of this little professional drama, they are now rapidly dissipating. It’s an intoxicating feeling.

“You made a deal for an export license.” It slips out a little breathy, and Tommy smiles. It’s not one of the smiles he can’t seem to contain, no, this one he willingly gives. It lights the room like a fucking lightning.

“Our Station Inspector desperately wants a promotion.”

Alfie ought to ask exactly what Tommy promised the man. He probably should wait and see if they even make it through the execution of Tommy’s grand plan. But he doesn’t care for any of it at the moment. He closes the distance between them in two large steps and crushes Tommy’s lips in a deep kiss.

If Martin Montague is a door, now they have the missing key. Now he can keep Tommy—even after the threat of Sabini passes.

Tommy is the first one to pull away this time, and when he does, his cheeks are flushed just a little. Alfie needs to regain his composure. It’s just fucking business, right, no need to flail like a child over a piece of candy. He’s definitely not in the habit of showcasing how needy he is for something. Wouldn’t be appropriate, for a man of his stature, to let others think their decisions have some sort of hold over him, right. Would be dangerous.

Unwilling to discuss this further around so many ears—loyal but human nonetheless—they leave the bakery and walk into the afternoon sunshine.

Tommy’s little encounter with the Italians and the subsequent detour to the police station probably made a hole the size of a cannonball in his schedule. But he doesn’t complain, walking beside Alfie and retelling him the events, completely nonchalant about his wrecked appearance. Alfie fucking loves that about Tommy. Warm, fuzzy thoughts bounce in his head as they reach a tiny bridge across a canal and stop in the middle. The sun and the fresh lapping make it easier to ignore what Tommy is currently saying, just for a moment longer.

“Are you even listening?”

There’s something deeply attractive about those pristine shirts of his one moment and utter fucking negligence the other, when Tommy’s happy about something. Because this, this is as happy as Tommy gets. Pity happiness doesn’t reduce that awful propensity to show zero fucking regard for his well-being.

“Alfie?”

“You know, I might’ve gone a bit deaf right now, after that complete fucking nonsense left your pretty lips, Tommy,” Alfie finally responds, turning in time to see Tommy quirk an eyebrow as he lights a cigarette. “And I’d rather it not be permanent, right, cause I really like listening to you.”

“There’s no danger in it for you.”

“No fucki-” Alfie scoffs, unable to contain it. On the other side of the bridge, behind Tommy’s back, some wanker with a lass on his arm stares at them for a second before rapidly spinning the girl round and retreating. “Killing Sabini is no fucking danger, right? Bloody hell, why wasn’t it our grand plan from the beginning then? Tommy,” Alfie spreads his arms, disregarding Tommy’s eye roll, and then spreads them a little wider, to illustrate his point with more expression, “the localized absence of matter in you after they come to Birmingham with grenades, right, it will be something like this. Here, yeah? In approximate units. And cause of that fucking not-eating thing, you’re already three times smaller.”

He’s forced to shut up when someone does pass across the bridge, with some fucking death wish, and Tommy’s silent as well, propping his elbows on the railing and finishing his cigarette. Somewhere far off, a car engine backfires, triggering a piercing shrill of children’s half-scared, half-excited screams.

Tommy’s watching the stub he’s just thrown down float under the bridge.

“You’re missing the point, Alfie,” he says quietly, as if not entirely meaning for Alfie to hear it, and shifts uncomfortably, still keeping his head down.

Alfie fumbles with the ring on his index finger. He’s got the point alright. Tommy trusts him this time. Still not something worth dying over.

“Look, it’s not a no yet. Alright?” he finally responds, and a tiny smug smile tugs at Tommy’s lips, the bastard. “But it’s not a proclamation that I’ll cheer ya to go get yourself killed so I can go weep by your fucking grave. Arthur will strangle me, fucking feral that man. Unless that aunt of yours stabs me first, seems like the type.”

Tommy meets his eyes and replies, with a completely serious expression, “Well, I guess you’ll have to protect me, then.”

It’s the third time someone approaches the bridge, two men, green and posh-looking, and Alfie thinks a drowning is about to happen. But then long fingers wrap around his elbow just for a moment, and Tommy steers him towards the street. Apparently, the hole in the schedule started bleeding.

They spend the walk back to the office in companionable silence. Fantastically, Tommy’s breathing actual air instead of sucking on one of his cigarettes for once. Alfie considers the burning desire to offer him to stay the night. As a means of celebration and all, however fucked in the newly revealed context that deal is. But as the bakery comes into view, and Tommy says something about getting a few men to guard Ada’s house, now that they’re looking for rogue fucking wops, Alfie realizes he has things to contemplate. Things he may have been too blinded by his acceptance to actually see.

He sends some of his boys with Thomas, not intending to listen to a word of objection. It doesn’t come. Tommy just looks at him for a few long seconds.

“See you, Alfie.” And he sets off to resolve family matters, with Alfie’s hum hitting him in the back.

Funny, Alfie thinks as he goes down the stairs and writes a short letter, how crazy ideas brightly explode in the care of Thomas Shelby. Whoever’s not with him in the centre will get torn to shreds by the shrapnel.

Montague agrees to the presented plan the same evening, completely oblivious to the real intentions behind it. Alfie’s long since grown numb to any shade of guilt over killing a soul. But now, the memory of Tommy’s sharp, dangerous smile sends a shiver of impatience down his spine. And that, well, that might be a little twisted.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter was written to Don't Get In My Way (Instrumental) by Zack Hemsey. This is pretty much Tommy and Alfie's theme for this fic now.

Tommy pays May a visit the same day he leaves London, after scrubbing the blood from under his fingernails. The days are already blurring into one, and he can’t lose this deal now. Not when he got so close to having everything.

“God, you look a mess,” May frowns, tracing the barely visible bruise on his cheek with her manicured finger.

Tommy’s suddenly so tired he feels like he could sleep for a year. But he can’t lose this deal. Fuck what Alfie said about whoring himself out, he needs to get it together and focus. Because if he blows this, there will be no more Alfie for him. Literally. 

“It’s nothing,” he brushes off, looking at her through the lashes and wrapping an arm around her waist, but she puts a finger to his lips when they approach her mouth. Tommy’s rendered speechless while she examines his face, turning his head carefully to get a better look at the scrape.

“That needs ice,” she eventually concludes, and Tommy barely stops himself from arguing.

Let her have this. It’s hardly insufferable to endure a couple of hours of care. Tommy nods and sits down on the bed, scavenging for some hidden resources inside while she’s fussing over him, gentle touches and hushed words. It takes barely half an hour, until they’re in bed, and May ends up yawning on his chest. He strokes her back until she’s asleep and rolls away, blinking at the ceiling.

He rarely actually sleeps in her bed, mindful of violent nightmares. But now, he lets himself close his eyes, just for a second, and the exhaustion pulls him under. Tommy dreams of his horse, and in that dream, Dangerous comes first.

***

That visit becomes the last, with life growing exceedingly chaotic. It’s Monday when Tommy goes back to London, leading several newly established owners to their respective pubs and dealing with the bursts of opposition as necessary.

He’s sure it’s Monday. He’s careful to keep track of these things now.

Checking on Ada is instinctive, and he braces himself for her spite as he greets Alfie’s boys and goes up the stairs, but it’s the day, for some reason, when Ada is softer. They speak for a while. She’s holding a newspaper while Tommy’s smoking by the window, and neither feels the need to break the unexpected peace by eye contact.

Eventually, the cigarette ends, and Tommy picks up his briefcase.

“Oh, by the way, Solomons passed you a message,” Ada says without looking up from the paper. “Asked to tell you that your dying is scheduled for Wednesday. Whatever that means.”

Tommy’s lips twitch in amusement. “He asked?”

At that, Ada looks, and her eyebrows shoot up at the sight of something only she and Polly have ever been able to decipher in his blank expressions. He doesn’t care to freeze it out. The blast of the recent acknowledgment hasn’t fully passed yet, and Tommy will use it to his advantage for as long as he can. Particularly now, that Alfie has arranged the meeting with Montague.

Ada regards him for several long moments before replying, with a small smile of her own, “He’s got stellar manners, compared to you. As insane as it sounds.”

That, and his magnetic lack of worship of Tommy’s person.

“I’m glad you’re getting along.” Will Ada ever realize she’s the same as the lot of them, he wonders briefly, setting for the door. Maybe she does, just silently.

“Tommy?” He stops in his tracks, palm on the door handle, and turns to her.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get yourself killed.”

She returns to her paper before the door closes behind Tommy, her grip on the page subtly crushing. He checks his watch briefly as he gets in the car, finding it suddenly effortless to keep his mind organized and clear. He will trust Alfie now. And there will be plenty of time to second-guess this decision after Epsom.

***

The ticking is pounding in Tommy’s head many hours later, when he drives all the way to London and steps out into the evening. Life becomes a clock. He doesn’t touch opium these days, and the brutal rhythm breaks loose, aligning his heart, his mind, his steps to fit its pattern.

It carries him to the bakery door, pounding steadily in his chest. It’s just another day. Another investment in the future. Until Montague is dead and the message is sent, it’s nothing more than another job.

Ollie bumps into him as soon as Tommy steps over the threshold. The boy lets out a breath, looking over his shoulder briefly.

“Tom, they’re here,” he whispers, notes of panic in his voice as he backs away and fixes his kippah. “They’re early. There’s four of ‘em.”

“Ollie,” Tommy stops the frenzied rant. He speaks slowly, letting his voice sink deeper, and locks his eyes with Ollie’s. “Where are you supposed to be, eh?”

Ollie takes one shaky breath. “At the door.”

“So stay at the fucking door. Alright?”

It takes Ollie a couple of seconds to put his wits together. He rubs his face, chewing on his lip, and the seconds tick away, louder and louder in the darkness. When Ollie gives a nod, it’s firm enough, and Tommy continues down the corridor without wasting another minute. They won’t get a chance to speak beforehand then. It’s not critical.

The heavy darkness clings to the coat, pushing distant echoes of voices to the surface. At this hour, the bakery always feels like a grave, air thick and stale, deadly silent under the ground. But tonight, there are shadows of too many flickering lights on the walls. They line the path down the stairs, run along the hall with barrels, prickling at Tommy’s senses, pulling his mind from the weight of soil above his head.

The door to the office creaks when he pushes it open, and too many pairs of eyes snap to him.

“Ah, Thomas, right, come in, don’t be a stranger,” Alfie calls, taking his glasses off.

“Good evening, Mr. Montague. Mr. Solomons.” Tommy walks up to where the man is seated in the only chair beside Alfie’s table and shakes his hand. His palm is warm and dry. Alfie did one hell of a job constructing appearances then, despite how little time they had to throw it together.

Martin twists his lips in a smile that’s already sickeningly smug. “Pleasure, Mr. Shelby.”

There are two figures at the wall to the left, surrounded by Alfie’s men, and one directly behind Tommy. Right. No point in dragging this on.

The floor squeaks when Tommy shifts his weight, almost stepping forward.

“Right!” Alfie exclaims, slamming a hand on the table, and Tommy stops instantly, meeting his eyes. One of Montague’s companions at the wall flinches. “So see, Tommy, this gentleman here, Mr. Montague, we were supposed to do business with him, right, me and you, and him.”

The sudden rambling throws Tommy off balance just slightly, but he doesn’t let it show. There’s no point in waiting. Blood starts pumping faster in his temples.

Move. Fucking do this.

“But now, see, he’s advising me,” Alfie huffs and shakes his head, and the cold starts creeping up Tommy’s neck, “to refrain from engaging with you further.”

“Is he.” Tommy’s voice is completely void of emotion. _Move_.

As if sensing his thoughts, Alfie jerks his head. Tommy clenches his teeth and stays in place.

“Yeah, yeah, he says—what were your words, mate—there was some insult there, if I recall.” Alfie strokes his beard, humming, his left arm sinks below the desk. Tommy doesn’t bat an eye when he whips the gun from its usual place in the wrong drawer and aims it straight at Tommy’s chest. “Gypsies deal dirty. That’s what he said.”

The room falls into ringing silence. Montague leeches to Tommy’s face, but there is only indifference to catch. Tommy looks into Alfie’s calm eyes.

“Can’t trust them, yeah.” Martin files in and stretches his legs, confident in his victory. “Not for a second.”

Alfie gestures to the man with his free hand, raising his eyebrows. “Can you argue with that? Now, Tommy, I don’t mean to be disrespectful towards your people, okay, but that is the truth to a huge fucking degree, which is why, as a rule, I do not deal with the gypsies.” The gun wanders to the side with each word as Alfie sways in his seat.

Tommy finally senses it. The movement behind. Alfie can see something he doesn’t. Tommy breathes through the wave of sudden relief, can’t afford it now, and coils internally, mind sharp and ready.

Alfie holds him in place with a click of his tongue.

“Now, you’re an exception to this rule, Thomas, alright, you’re exceptional,” he carries on, lively pointing with the gun. Another centimeter away from Tommy’s heart. “But I guess it just ain’t your day, mate. Simple as that.”

Alfie’s arm snaps away from Tommy’s frame and locks on something behind in a second. The gun roars, it’s deafening in such close quarters. The room is in motion before anyone can blink.

Montague jerks his whole body at the shot, arms flying instinctively to his jacket, but it’s a moment too late. Tommy springs forwards, knocking Martin over before he can pull his weapon. There’s another shot, right by his ear.

The world trembles.

A punch brings Tommy back to his senses, and he hears someone scream his name, but it’s irrelevant. Two shots mean that there is only one man left to kill this night.

_Move._

He grabs Montague’s hair and slams his head into the corner of the table, one, two times, until his arms stop flailing. The sounds around barely register, his head still ringing from the shot. Alfie booms something. It’ll become important in a second.

Tommy hurtles Montague to the floor and reaches for his gun before the man can scramble to his feet. Led by a sudden instinct, he looks around.

The room is full of people, but his eyes land on Alfie in an instant. Solomons’s gaze is chained to Tommy’s leg for some reason, but he looks up now, pupils blown and gun still in hand. He’s breathing heavily. Behind him, one of Montague’s men is lying motionless, with a hole in his forehead and hand still inside his jacket, half a second away from shooting Tommy in the back.

Tommy looks back at Montague and pulls the trigger.

Without wasting a second, Alfie turns on his heel and approaches Ishamel, who’s holding a writhing man, the last living of the Americans, by his neck, crouching in front of him and slapping him hard across the face.

“Oi. Eyes on me.” He grabs the man’s jaw and jerks his head to face him when the man stares at Tommy. His whole body’s shaking. “Not on Tommy. Right here.”

“Please…” he mumbles, blood from the nose spilling all over his mouth, “please, I won’t- please-”

“You’re gonna walk out of my bakery now,” Alfie says slowly, grabbing the man’s hair to keep his eyes focused. “My boys will get you to whatever fucking hole you live in. Wouldn’t want you to encounter some trouble at night, do we. Tumultuous city.”

Tommy approaches and holsters his gun, towering over them.

“Tomorrow, you will write to your American friends and give them a fair and emotional account of what you’ve just seen here. Yeah?” Alfie raises his eyebrows, and after a second, the man nods violently, pushing against his hand. “Tell them that their “inconvenience” on the road to cooperation with me and-” Alfie nods in Tommy’s direction without breaking eye contact with the man “-my partner here, it’s resolved. No angry ex-partners to worry about. Alright?”

“Y-yes. I’ll write. I’ll wri-te. Sure.”

Alfie pats the man’s cheek before standing up. “Good boy. Get this fucker out.”

Tommy collapses then. He first thinks he slips on the spilled blood, but the world keeps swaying even when he’s down. He puts a palm on the floor and looks down at his body, trying to identify the injury.

Alfie lands by his side at the same moment Tommy sees blood soaking his trousers. Ah. That punch must’ve been a knife.

“Tommy, you with me?” Alfie sounds a bit distant, but the hand on his face is real when Alfie slaps his cheek lightly.

Tommy nudges his hand away. Too many people in the room. At least, there were, just a second ago. Where’s everyone?

“I’m fine.”

“You’d be dead already if you weren’t,” comes a calm reply, and Alfie goes to look for something on the shelf, coming back with a roll of bandages, a pile of gauze and a bottle. Tommy blinks, trying to bring the world back in focus. It’s just the shock that’s making him see spots. His body will adjust in a second. He won’t fucking faint here. Not now.

“They’re getting the car started,” Alfie clarifies, reaching for Tommy thigh and ripping the trousers to expose the wound.

A muffled cry escapes through Tommy’s pressed lips when he splashes the whiskey over the cut, no fucking warning, before pressing the stacked gauze down on it and wrapping Tommy’s leg tightly in bandages. It takes a second for the pain to recede.

Alfie’s hand comes to his face, and Tommy doesn’t flinch away when Alfie smooths his thumb over his lower lip, meeting his eyes. “You’re coming with me tonight, yeah.”

Alfie’s finger tastes of whiskey. Tommy glances at Montague’s body on the floor, and when he turns back to Alfie’s slightly wild gaze, something kicks in his chest, spreading the sparkling warmth to the tips of his fingers. It’s just the export license now. And he can keep this stupid, dangerous man to himself for a little longer.

As if hearing Tommy’s thoughts, Alfie kisses him, and he tangles his hand in Alfie’s hair, tugging him away when he hears rushed steps in the hallway.

He blames the smile blooming on his lips entirely on blood loss.

“I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. Solomons.”

***

The only lasting consequence of his wound is a rather gruesome state of Alfie’s car when they arrive. Tommy’s sore all over now that the adrenaline’s worn out, but he’s conscious, and he’s alive. By sheer luck, that. A touch higher, and he’d be dead long before Alfie could scare their poor messenger into pissing his pants before sending him off.

Tommy’s not the one to ponder on things that could have been.

Alfie keeps his hand tight around his waist as Tommy limps inside, away from the blinking streetlights and prying drunk eyes in the shadows. Alfie is so fucking warm. And Tommy’s chest is still full with the searing sensation of victory.

It seems a perfectly sensible idea to celebrate being alive by grabbing Alfie’s shirt and biting into his mouth when the lock clicks. Fuck it. He can do whatever he wants tonight. Let go and snog Alfie aimlessly at the door, feeling his nerves ignite as they rarely do. And the morning will be too busy for any regrets.

“Tommy,” Alfie rasps, hesitant to answer. He whispers something about the bleeding and getting Tommy to lie down through the short heated kisses, but he caves eventually.

It’s still fucking incomprehensible how there’s always so much of Alfie when they kiss, touch, fuck. Tommy feels like he’s drowning at sea.

They stagger into the room, and Alfie draws a gasp out of him with his tongue and hands on Tommy’s lower back, radiating heat. It’s overwhelming—so much contact. Contact is something he’s never… Fuck, it’s almost pathetic how quickly it makes him hard. Makes him lose his head a little.

Tommy’s halfway through tugging the first button on Alfie’s shirt loose when Alfie grabs his hands gently.

It’s that second that the light in the open corridor upstairs flickers on, and Tommy tears his mouth from Alfie’s, recoiling from his touch. God, he needs to get a fucking grip on himself. Of course the house wouldn’t be empty. Alfie has a maid.

The momentary panic rips through the aroused mess of his mind. Alfie is still holding him close with a steadying arm around his shoulders, and Tommy glares at him, trying to step away. The attempt is unsuccessful. Alfie stubbornly doesn’t yield, a crease appearing between his eyebrows, even when they hear loud steps descending down the stairs.

“Bloody hell, Tommy,” Alfie mutters, pressing Tommy’s hand firmly to his chest when Tommy tries to push him away and nearly falls from the weak momentum. His leg screams in pain, knee buckles, and he can’t struggle for a second, hanging on Alfie’s supporting arm. “Stop fucking fighting, will ya? Would be better if I had to carry you to the bloody couch?”

He’s got a point. Not that it matters anyway. The woman comes down precisely when Alfie lowers Tommy on the cushioned seat, helping him prop his leg up. Cyril trots close behind her. Her sharp features are not smoothed by the sudden awakening, eyes clear and unafraid when she looks at a ragged bleeding man crushing on the couch in the middle of the night.

Alfie says something to her in his usual cheerful manner, words somehow softer now that he’s talking in Yiddish. He’s told Tommy once. About the language. He keeps talking while he removes the bandage, and Tommy can’t breathe for a second, overcome with the white-hot pain that the rush of blood brings.

Illa—was it?—doesn’t respond immediately. She watches intently as Cyril, finally recognizing the familiar smoky scent, rushes to Tommy’s side and bumps into his stretched leg, paws on the edge of the couch. Alfie pushes his big head away from the wound, and Tommy hangs his hand off the couch, giving him a fond rub when Cyril drenches his palm in spit. He likes this dog. He’s got smart eyes.

“Illa,” Alfie repeats, raising his voice to the uncompromising range.

She jerks her head and spits something in reply. Alfie sighs deeply. It takes another second before she finally concedes and goes away, muttering something to herself none too silently. Alfie’s got a small smile under his beard now. It stops Tommy from protesting when he removes his boots and slides his trousers off. For some reason, it doesn’t feel demeaning now, this care.

“She’ll know,” Tommy warns, wincing a little when Alfie peels the blood-soaked gauze off and rubs his skin gently in apology.

“She already knows. Fucking hell, Tommy, that woman would know if she just saw you standing a street away from me. She always knows. No idea how she does it.”

Tommy ignores the icy chill that prickles at the base of his skull. Alfie’s not stupid. _Trust him._

Illa returns a minute later with some satchel and a bowl of water. She shoots Tommy another piercing glance before going to dispose of the used gauze. Yes, she seems like someone who would know. Probably had a lot of practice, in Alfie’s home.

Alfie opens the satchel and sets to cleaning the undamaged area of blood, and Tommy can’t stop his mouth, the thought suddenly intrusive, “You verified that a lot?” he asks wryly and elaborates after Alfie’s quizzing gaze, “her fortune-telling?”

It’s lighthearted, but it shifts something in Alfie’s calm expression. Tommy regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Why the fuck does he need to know? But he does, for some reason. It scratches at the glowing bubble in his chest. Alfie turns away from Tommy, wetting a piece of cloth with whiskey on the table before pressing it hard on the wound.

Tommy clutches the blanket underneath, breathing through the pain.

“Not as of lately, no,” comes an overdue reply. Alfie keeps his tone forcefully indifferent and swipes the cut roughly.

No. Not this shit. You fucking idiot, not tonight.

Tommy bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

Alfie sets to stitching him up, the lack of his usual rambling painfully loud in the quiet room. Tommy presses his lips together, breathing heavily. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. He reaches for the bottle and takes a gulp.

This will be one doomed bloody conversation if he doesn’t swallow his pride together with the burning liquid.

Alfie’s working fast and careful now, nothing like May, dragging the process out with excessively cautious touch and skin-crawling pity. Trusting Tommy to take it. The nauseating feeling of vulnerability that sparked back then in the office surfaces and sinks.

Tommy draws a breath. He plans to fuck Alfie tonight. Then he plans to sleep, nestled by his side, till the morning. He will open his mouth and fix whatever he’s just broken with his defiance.

“You should have employed her then, as your prophet.” Tommy clears his throat. “Instead of some gypsy.”

As on command, Alfie chuckles. Probably decided to let it go too, in these minutes. Tommy squeezes his fingers in Cyril’s fur unconsciously.

When Alfie answers, his voice is void of hurt. “Nah, that’d make you a maid then, right? And you’re absolute rubbish in the kitchen, mate.”

“Depending on how the kitchen is used,” Tommy smirks.

Alfie snaps the long thread and looks quickly around the empty room before sliding the palm up his thigh. “I might just take you up on that little joke.”

Later, when they go straight to Alfie’s room, and Tommy finally gets him naked on the sheets, all thoughts of unwelcome feelings evaporate from his head. They’re burnt to ash by Alfie’s scorching hands, dragging roughly across his skin, and Alfie’s rumbling voice repeating his name.

Tommy leaves marks on his neck, doesn’t care. Alfie shivers, throwing his head back. For all the time he’s kept himself so tightly in check, never letting anything slip.

Alfie doesn’t resist this time when Tommy falls on his back and pulls him down, silently pleading for more contact, to cover his body entirely.

“Fuck… Alfie-” he breathes out, when Alfie’s beard scrapes his chest, his stomach, Alfie’s hands rubbing heat all over him.

For all the time he’s denied himself this.

It won’t be possible to return to detachment now. There’s no way he could pretend—not after this.

It rolls straight to hell now. Tommy lets out a choked gasp when hot lips close around his cock and runs his hands over Alfie’s shoulders, messy strands, everywhere he can reach. It’s so fucking perfect it’s almost painful. This time, he doesn’t even think of stopping it.

Alfie looks utterly wrecked when Tommy pushes him on his back, straddles his hips and sinks down on him, locking their eyes. His hands run up Tommy’s legs, over the bandage, and stop in a tight grip on his hips. A hoarse moan bubbles in the back of Tommy’s throat.

For all the fucking time...

It feels like he can explode with it. Pounding heat boils under his skin, rushes him. It’s impossible to wait another second. Tommy wouldn’t even if he could, and the burn rips through him when he starts moving, way too early. It doesn’t matter that it hurts. He welcomes it. It takes his mind off how raw his entire body feels right now, how open he is when Alfie looks up at him with his dark, dark eyes.

God, he feels so fucking alive.

Alfie’s grip becomes brutal. For a second Tommy thinks he’ll tell him to slow down, think about his leg.

But Alfie doesn’t. He jerks his hips upwards, driving his cock into Tommy with no remnants of gentleness, and reaches up to tangle his fingers in Tommy’s hair.

“Fuck yeah, Tommy,” he says quietly. And Tommy lets the warm bubble in his chest explode.

It’s their night. In every sense now. And he takes everything he wants, letting the fire overpower reason.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s a pretty picture—Tommy seated at the table with Cyril’s head mounted faithfully on his lap, talking softly to Illa and filling the kitchen with smoke. She doesn’t seem to mind the stench. Neither is she bothered by the holstered gun on the far side of the table.

In a second, Alfie’s brain catches up. The holster is not on Tommy. How did she get him to take it off?

The contemplation blurs in with a ton of other positively useless thoughts. Alfie’s too warm and sloppy to sort them, his head lighter than it’s been in weeks. In the absence of a functioning filter, the night barges in, dulling the disappointment of waking up to a cooling sheet and no Tommy in the vicinity. They’ll work on that. Whatever his brain means by it.

Mornings are positively evil. Alfie’s better at waking up at the same time he leaves the bed now, war contributing to that bitterly, but he’s still not fully conscious when he comes in and stares a little when Tommy shoots him a small smile.

Wonders of this world.

“Morning, Tommy,” he says in what has inadvertently become a tiny habit and bids a greeting to Illa.

He almost brushes a hand across Tommy’s shoulder in passing. Fuck, does he long to. But although Illa is not a hazard in this context, it’s not Alfie’s place to decide. So he sets on making himself a nice cup of coffee.

“Morning, Alfie,” Tommy replies without fault, glancing at the coffee pot in his hands with open disgust.

While Alfie’s busy climbing back to the land of the living, Tommy renews their silent conversation with Illa. Alfie barely listens, but he hears something about horses. Yeah, that’d do it. Bloody stupid fascination the two of them share, with these jittery creatures. Eventually, Alfie sits down with a steaming cup, ungodly large for such a drink, and takes in Tommy’s lax frame and the way red marks barely creep above the shirt’s collar. He likes the sight. It’s strange how easy it is to stay silent this morning and just appreciate him unabashedly. As if nothing requires fixing, for bloody once.

Illa finishes making breakfast and leaves them alone by the time Alfie’s half through with his coffee.

He waits patiently for her to get out of earshot—if that’s fucking possible at all—before leaning forward and pushing the plate towards Tommy. “How’s your leg feelin’, any pain?”

“It’s alright, just a scratch.” Tommy glances down at Cyril, as if it were a valid proof. He bloody adores that dog, Alfie’s sure. Underneath that Shelby self-sufficiency.

“Well, you better get that scratch sorted when you leave my realm of common sense today.” Something kicks his ankle under the table when Tommy leans forward to put the cigarette out in the new ashtray. “We’ve got some legwork to do soon, don’t we.”

Tommy looks up at him then and nods, gaze calm as the eye of a storm.

***

Moving into an illegal liquor business in America proves more tiresome that it has any right to be. The week flies between the suffocating bureaucracy and arrogant demands, and Alfie gives all his attention to the reigns in his hands, determined not to crush this whole thing before it even takes off. It keeps his mind busy. Not that he can’t scrape enough to dedicate to other matters, of course, but it makes it unfathomably easier to avoid it.

And there are things Alfie doesn’t want to think about. He’s got time, right, a whole week to address all those little pestering insecurities that have long since started pricking at his brain when Tommy’s name comes up. About business being business, and Shelby finding a surprisingly effective way to coax Alfie into trusting him, and this being all there is. About imminent betrayals. No, Alfie’s got five full days ahead of him. Bloody hell, he can resolve it in two, if he just fucking puts his mind to it.

Lying to himself always leads to bad things. Alfie should’ve learned that by now.

The days shrink and shrink, and, suddenly, there’s hay under his boots, and the sun is shining brightly onto the buzzing town. Epsom has none of his gloom to it. It’s vibrant today, full of posh dresses, and rustling green papers, and whiskey to fill a thousand bellies.

Alfie nudges his hat lower onto his eyes and walks through the roaring crowd, doubt pounding its annoying beat in his temples.

He finds Ollie at the betting ring by one of Sabini’s pitches and pulls himself out of his head for a minute.

“Alfie.” The boy unfolds his arms and pushes through the stream of people when Alfie nods him to approach. He looks calmer than Alfie was going to give him credit for. Always better around people, that lad.

“Run into any trouble?”

Ollie shakes his head. “Clockwork. David is fucking livid, being stuck there with the wops, but he’ll live.”

They veer around the tent and pass across the bar towards another line of chalkboards, raising their voices to ring through the background noise. David is there alright, sulking next to two Italians who seem set on looking as disgusted as possible without actually engaging in a confrontation.

“Yeah, I’m sure he will,” Alfie mutters, “can’t say much for them, punchable fucking faces.”

David stirs when he sees Alfie but holds his position, merely nodding in acknowledgement.

Fucking phenomenal, how orchestrated this whole thing suddenly feels. Maybe it will go without a hitch after all.

“The Peakys are here already,” Ollie informs as they approach the secluded sector of the tribunes, now almost empty. “They’re waiting. It don’t seem like they know… the whole plan, though. Did he tell them?”

From the top row of the seats, Sabini makes a show of checking his watch and then locks eyes with Alfie, touching two fingers to his hat. Alfie imagines how awfully indecent blood will look on his little white suit.

“It’s not our fucking business though, Ollie, what he tells them now, right,” he replies calmly, tipping his hat in response.

The pretty picture is still burning bright and warm behind his eyelids, animated with cheerful music coming from the band somewhere close by. If it just weren’t for the knot in his stomach, tightening with every minute, Alfie might’ve even smiled in that bastard’s face.

An announcement roars over their heads that moment, prompting visitors to place their bets and find their seats. Sabini chooses this moment to take his bodyguards and do precisely the opposite, starting down the stairs and flashing Alfie the final smile as he disappears from view. The last smile, Alfie mentally corrects himself, listening to a fit of laughter erupting in the distance.

_ Yeah, you go, cunt. _ Right to the dining room. Into the safe, welcoming arms of his newest Jewish protectors.

Right, then. No time fucking around. He needs to find Tommy and drive the last nail into that coffin.

“Tell Ishmael to keep his eyes open, yeah.”

Ollie replies something affirmative, but Alfie’s already gone, making his way to the stables and gripping his cane a notch too hard. Thomas is not anywhere out in the open, they would have seen him otherwise during their little round, and the quiet stables are Alfie’s first thought.

Ridiculous, how much he knows about Tommy by now. Does he  _ know Tommy _ , though, it’s an entirely different question. And it’s bloody crucial to get the answer straight, because otherwise, Alfie might wake up one morning, when Tommy’s position in London is solidified, and find his whole life brought down around his ears because of this little commitment.

The stables hit him with the smell of shit and hay, air still and silent away from the chaos of the crowd. Alfie forces himself to breathe in deeply. The stench grounds him a little, and he walks until Tommy’s hushed voice reaches his ears. Alfie hears it, rolling smoothly in such close proximity to horses, before he sees him. A woman answers, equally quietly. That must be May.

Alfie stops when they come into view, unwilling to waste time on polite introductions.

Tommy turns to him and drops the conversation while Alfie continues to resolutely ignore how unnecessarily close to each other they’re standing. Least of the fucking problems now, innit?

Tommy looks sharp as ever when he approaches.

“It’s all set?”

Alfie hums and looks at May in the distance, who promptly turns away when meeting his gaze. Alfie suspects he must look a little menacing today. People seem to react to his presence like that.

“Yeah, he’ll come when the pistol fires. Ishmael with the lads are there. David and Ollie are ready to welcome your boys when you’re done.”

“Good.”

Tommy opens his coat and takes his gun out, checking the chamber and clearing his throat before returning the weapon into the holster. Alfie suddenly wants to say something. Run his mouth like he usually does, tell Tommy not to kill himself in some veiled suggestions that he seems to have no trouble unraveling. And Tommy, fuck him plenty, looks like he’s waiting for it. But there are no words in Alfie’s mouth. Just tightness in his chest.

Tommy shoots one glance in May’s direction. What would he do if she wasn’t there? He doesn’t look like he knows himself. Bloody hell.

“Good,” Tommy repeats before Alfie can say something to break the silence and turns on his heel.

People start pooling in then, to get the horses, and Alfie sticks around just for a little longer, watching the black coat swoosh dramatically as Tommy walks out the door. Alfie feels like saying a silent prayer, wouldn’t be nothing strange about that. He did, before that meeting with Montague. He ponders if he should now.

Leaving the stables feels like taking a plunge into a river. There is a moment of utter stillness in the short narrow passage, and then a wave of crushing sound and movement picks Tommy up and carries him through the filling tribunes, down the track and to the betting ring that’s already growing desolate.

Tommy closes his lips around the cigarette a notch too tightly. He lingers at one of Alfie’s pitches, ignoring the way his insides twist violently at the pause. There was something wrong with Alfie’s expression, he knows, it’s hard to miss this sort of thing with Solomons. His eyes are alight one second, and then it simmers down, morphs into a calm and blank stare that Alfie uses so masterfully to gain the upper hand in business dealings. Tommy can’t read shit from that look. It’s completely impenetrable.

Alfie’s been wearing it at the stables.

It takes another lungful of smoke to wrench the fever under control and slow down. Sabini will be at the diner within minutes. Now is Tommy’s last chance to call it all off.

“Sir? Would you like to place a bet? The race is starting in three minutes,” comes a cautious prompt from the bookie when Tommy stops his pacing in front of the chalkboard.

The words don’t quite reach him. Tommy finishes his cigarette and breathes in the stirred sand in the air. Could it be just the nerves? The razor-sharp focus that doesn’t thin out even when Alfie goes on a tangent? It’s been a long time since Tommy’s seen that look directed at him, months even. For a grander scheme, it would be too much of a gamble.

But this is not a complicated plan.

Kill Sabini while he believes the Jews will help him kill Tommy instead. Call the coppers. Clear the way for the boys to get on with the show.

“Sir?”

A good plan. A simple plan. One that will definitely work if the faith that Tommy’s about to put into Alfie doesn’t turn on him in a little merry bonfire of its own.

Impulsively, Tommy turns to the bookie and puts a small bet on his horse before striding up the stairs and finally letting that nagging anticipation kick him out of indecision.

This is still not how he rolls. But if he’s going to take his chances, luck is hardly something to disregard.

Tommy surveys the room as he comes in and takes a seat by the small fountain in the centre, clasping his hands in front of him instead of reaching for another cigarette. No one of the few remaining visitors spares him more than a sideways glance. The silence is almost intimate here. Separated from the roaring crowd and cheerful announcements by feeble walls, it’s somehow only disturbed by the waiter’s measured steps and Ishmael’s conversation with another man in the corner.

There are five of them here, most Tommy’s never seen. Sabini’s new Jewish protection, waiting with cold impudence to conduct one final betrayal. If everything goes according to the plan, they won’t need to fire more than a single bullet.

Tommy waves the waiter off when he approaches and checks his watch, catching Ishmael’s intent gaze.

Sabini should have been here already. It’s less than a minute until the race starts.

Seconds seem to speed up. Tommy puts the watch away when the deafening bang of the pistol begins the countdown.

They have minutes now. After the race, there will be too many people circling, too dense a crowd to isolate the bastard for long enough. A chair scrapes on the floor when Ishmael moves to stand, his expression finally laced with open worry, but he obediently sits back down when Tommy fixes him with calm eyes and jerks his head. They need to stay put. Just for a little while longer. He can still show up.

There isn’t a single thought left in Tommy’s head. He looks at the door. Feels the dry air slide down his tongue before filling his lungs. On the second exhale, he unclasps his hands and starts counting.

Fifteen seconds pass. Thirty-five. A minute. The water in the fountain trembles with a thunderous cheer of a hundred voices. Sabini isn’t here, and their window has just slammed shut.

Tommy rises to his feet—find him, he needs to at least try—but his way is suddenly blocked by a vaguely familiar figure. The man is panting and grasping at his chest, as if he were one of the bloody horses on the track. In the corner of Tommy’s eye, Ishmael tenses and then sits back, recognizing one of his own.

“Mr. Shelby, they’re- Sabini, he’s not coming I think,” the man chokes out. “I’ve seen them just now- That passage, down round the building.”

Tommy starts for the door, with the man following close behind. “He’s with the Jews?”

When no reply comes within a second, he stops and turns to look the man in the eye. “Oi. There are Solomons’s men with him?”

The man swallows, suddenly baffled by the sharp glare. It takes him a moment to recover, but when Tommy’s about to grab his shoulders and shake the answer out of him, he gives a firm nod.

“Yes. There’s four of our boys with him.”

Four. And Italians, for sure. But that will be enough. That has to be enough.

Tommy storms out of the door, pulling his gun as he circles the building and finds the passage, tucked in-between the building and the exploding tribunes, shielded from the outside view. He should let it go. Too much of a risk, not knowing Sabini’s motivation, rushing into it blindly. But it’s not a choice Tommy can allow himself today.

He slows down when he reaches the turn, evens his breathing.

Sabini dies. Otherwise, the deal with the new police blows off, and the Americans come for Alfie Solomons when he fails to uphold his end of the bargain after killing their primary contact.

It’s not a choice at all.

Tommy cocks his gun and makes the turn, shooting as soon as his brain recognizes Sabini’s face. A faint click follows. In the next frozen moment, terrified expressions of four Italian faces twist with fury.

There are no Jews here.

There’s nothing at all inside Tommy’s chest, it seems, not even heartbeat. It’s a hollow black void. Something in his face must give it away, because Sabini sneers.

Tommy knows it’s over before the gun is knocked out of his hand, and hard blows send him to the dusty wooden floor. He knows this all too well—fighting is pointless. Perhaps that’s why the feeling grows, breaks through the adrenaline burning his veins. He fights back, just to fend it off. To stop feeling like he’s being torn apart from the inside too.

Alfie Solomons betrayed. Again.

Tommy coughs and it comes out bloody. Must be his face. It feels about to explode.

The beating suddenly stops, and Tommy uncurls slowly, spitting blood and sand that fill his mouth. He doesn’t try to get up. No point in fighting. This time, it’s definitive. If he could just breathe these final moments without the pain shuttering his lungs at the memory of Alfie’s hands cradling his bruised face, as if Tommy actually mattered.

_ What the fuck, Shelby. Pull yourself together. _

“Well, well, well.” Sabini motions to one of the men, and Tommy is heaved to his feet, a gun jabbed into the side of his neck. “What a pretty sight. Thought you smarter than that for a moment, yeah. Almost started respecting you, you know. For a minute.”

Tommy thought himself smarter too.

“Bet on the wrong horse,” Tommy mumbles and huffs, blood dripping on his collar.

It feels funny now, that the realization fully sinks in. No one will come. Not even the police. Sabini might think they’re on his payroll but, in truth, they are simply following clear orders to stay out of any turmoil until Thomas Shelby comes to inform them of one. Station Inspector Norby fulfilled his part of the deal alright.

Tommy laughs at that, and a crease appears between Sabini’s eyebrows. A gloved hand slaps him across the face.

“Too out of it already, Shelby? Jesus, you’re so fucking useless aren’t you. How did you cause that fucking blackout in Solomons’s head, mm?” The hand grabs his jaw, and Tommy looks into the spiteful face, trying to understand what Sabini is saying. “Doesn’t matter now, I guess. Whatever deal he had with you, it will get him killed now, a fucking waste, this war.”

Wires can’t connect in Tommy’s head. What does the fucker mean?

There’s noise outside, but Tommy attributes it to the ringing in his head. No one will come. He just wants it to be over already.

When Sabini doesn’t command the man to pull the trigger for another moment, Tommy takes a breath and spits a mouthful of blood onto his white fucking suit.

“You bas-” Sabini bellows and never finishes, crushing onto Tommy the next moment, his brains spilling all over.

Tommy falls together with the man holding him. The gun roars by his ear, the bullet barely grazing the skin on his neck, and the scorching pain shakes him out of the stupor. He drives his elbow into the man’s face, until his grip on the gun goes slack.

Few more shots rip through the air above his head. Tommy pushes Sabini’s body off of him and forces himself to move.

“Stay down!” A loud command booms over the gunfire.

He does, he’s not fucking stupid. But staying on the floor in the middle of the corridor doesn’t make any bloody sense either.

Someone thrusts his gun over the floor towards him, and Tommy dashes to grab it. It’s one second to look up, figure out where the Italians are, shoot twice without aiming much. It’s only now Tommy realizes the voice belongs to Alfie.

Ishmael and two other men Tommy doesn’t recognize rush past him while he’s scrambling to his feet. The remaining two Italians try for the corner, but one of them trips and collapses, leaving a bloody trail. There are bodies on the floor. Someone’s screaming.

Where the fuck is Alfie?

Tommy looks around, the world swaying in front of him. In and out. He needs to breathe. The final shot barely registers, and the instilled silence is disturbed by pained cries, falling more and more silent by the second. Tommy keeps his eyes off the bloodied floor, away from the wounded men. He needs to focus. Needs to help one person at a time.

He spots Alfie further down the corridor, sitting by the wall and clutching his side. His favourite white shirt does nothing to stop the stream of blood quickly dunking him in a red metallic puddle.

All thoughts of betrayal seem so far away now they’re hardly real.

“Alfie,” Tommy rasps, barely hearing himself through the blood in his ears, “for fuck’s sake, Solomons.”

He wants to throw the gun away, staple his hands to the wound and scream for help, but he doesn’t. It would do nothing. He needs to stay reasonable and breathe through it if he wants Solomons to live long enough to offer any explanation.

“You look fucking awful, mate,” Alfie mutters when Tommy holsters the gun and shakes off his coat, his jacket. He tries weakly to reach for Tommy’s face, but Tommy bats his hand away. “Thought we’d come earlier, love. That fucker refused to-”

Alfie yelps when Tommy yanks him to lie horizontally and presses the tightly folded jacket hard onto the wound.

“Fucking pikey cunt! Get off!”

Yeah, that’s more like it. Tommy holds him down and almost smiles when Alfie continues spewing curses, switching to Yiddish at some point. There’s suddenly silence, he notices.

_ Don’t think about it. _

“Don’t fucking move.” He clenches his teeth when his hands start giving out and presses harder, looking up just in time to see Ishmael, running towards them with wide eyes.

“Lord almighty…”

“Ishmael, go call the police,” Tommy says steadily, meeting his gaze. Ignoring the way Alfie’s struggling wears down to weak uncoordinated grasping at his hands.

“Is he-”

“Ishmael, call the police. Then bring the car round, we need to get Alfie to the hospital.” Firm, calm words seem to start reaching Ishmael’s brain. Tommy drops his voice lower, forcing the man to listen closely. Snap out of his panic. “Police first, then bring the car. Ollie should be near the coppers, tell him to call the hospital and warn them. Go. Now.”

By some power Tommy hasn’t believed in for a long time, Ishmael goes. Tommy breathes out and looks at Alfie’s pale face.

No.  _ You’re not done. _

“Oi!” he calls out to the two survivors watching the scene unfold with equally terrified expressions, frozen at the other side of the passage. Fuck’s sake, who does this moron employ… “Come here. Come on. What’s your name?” Tommy nods to the man on the left.

He swallows, takes a second to respond. “Avi.”

“Avi, alright. Listen. Check if there’s anyone alive. Try to stop the bleeding if you can, okay? Use your scarf. Just wrap it around and press, eh?”

Then Alfie coughs, gripping his wrist, and Tommy’s eyes snap to him without much conscious thought. He has to put half his weight on his arms now to stop them from shaking. White knuckles are streaked with blood. Tommy’s not sure how much of it is Alfie’s.

“You’ll be alright,” he says, meeting Alfie’s eyes. “We’ll get you to the hospital. Ishmael is bringing the car.”

He’s rambling, he realizes. Words just seem to spill out. There will be tiny red scratches on Alfie’s side, right by the wound, but Tommy can’t bring himself to relax his fingers. It feels like the fucking thing will just slip off if he moves an inch, and there won’t be anything left holding Alfie fucking Solomons’s life from leaking out of his body.

“Tommy,” Alfie says then, thumb stroking Tommy’s wrist. Maybe he’s been doing it this whole time. “You did fine, yeah? You’re doing fine. Know what, doing fucking stellar. You keep at it.”

Tommy tells him to shut up. There’s no indication that Alfie hears him, his eyes falling shut.

He holds on for all of eternity it seems, when someone finally comes. It’s a policeman that approaches him, and, apparently, it’s a smart one. He doesn’t try to drag Tommy away from Alfie’s bleeding form, just shows him a roll of bandages and calmly asks if Tommy would help him.

Tommy does. Together, they wrap the bandage around the wound, keeping the pressure on it as best as they can, and Tommy grits out a well-rehearsed explanation while Ishmael, David and Avi carry Alfie to the car.

“Did you see who fired the shot at Sabini?” The officer keeps his eyes on Tommy while others start carrying the bodies out.

“Fuck do I know,” Tommy snaps. “It was a bloody gunfight here, and you expect me-” he gestures to his ruined face “-to have seen anything?”

“Do you require medical assistance?” comes a dispassionate question.

Tommy feels seconds seep through his fingers, valuable fucking seconds that he can’t be bothered to waste on this official piece of shit.

“Mr. Shelby?”

“I don’t need fucking assistance,” he spits and tries his best to keep his balance walking out.

It’s another fit of chaos outside that Tommy’s too numb to fully comprehend. He needs to find a car. Follow Alfie to the hospital. What hospital are they taking him to? London is the closest, but hospitals are not something he’s even vaguely familiar with in that area.

The air is steadily filling with the whiffs of smoke. When someone calls him from behind, Tommy assumes it’s one of his people, eager to boast about the success, and walks faster, having his priorities set.

“Tom! Bloody hell...”

Ollie catches up to him when he reaches the car.

“Can you wait a second?”

Tommy pushes the boy away when he happens to come too fucking close. “Do I look like I have a second?”

Ollie, normally shivering like a leaf from this tone of his, sticks a hand out in a suddenly firm gesture.

“I’ll drive. I know the way. They’re wrapping things up here, well, it’s mainly you Peakys now, right?”

Tommy blinks at him.

“The keys, please, Mr. Shelby?”

Ollie’s hand is shaking just slightly. There’s a manic look in his eyes, and the combination is hardly allowing of anything that relates to controlling a moving vehicle. Tommy forces himself to think rationally. He’s not any better, and Ollie at least knows the way.

Tommy tosses him the keys and barely manages to slam the door shut when Ollie stomps his foot on the pedal.

It must be a very particular kind of hospital, because no one tries to stop them when Tommy and Ollie barge in and start asking questions. A nurse pales, eyes darting to the gun against Tommy’s ribs. Ollie barks something, but Tommy puts a hand on his shoulder. She’s of no use when scared. He instinctively tries to pull the coat closed to conceal the gun before realizing he’s still not wearing any. Must’ve left it soaking in blood in that dingy corridor.

“Alfie Solomons is supposed to be in surgery for a gunshot wound,” Tommy forces the words out in the softest voice he can now muster. “Could you direct us there, please?”

After a moment of hesitation, she goes to check the records and then nods for Tommy to follow, leading them up the stairs, through a hallway reeking of medicine and alcohol, to a door that must remain closed until the doctor is done. Tommy perceives the information in jagged fragments. He thanks her when she leaves, at least he intends to do so.

The door is now guarded only by Ishmael and David, both standing and talking quietly in their language. Ishmael breaks the conversation and starts in his direction when Tommy slumps down in a seat, but he stops and returns to his spot when Tommy shakes his head. He feels like throwing up and hangs his head between his knees, breathing through it. Fuck, he hates himself for this. He’s not the one dying. He can’t be weak now.

For a long time, not a word is uttered.

A nurse comes and goes, failing to coax Tommy into letting her tend to his injuries.

He barely feels any pain now, although the adrenaline must be already gone. He barely feels anything. When his heart comes too close to racing in his throat, he swallows and reaches for the cigarettes that aren’t there.

It must be at least an hour until Ollie speaks, his voice silent and uncertain despite the words, “People don’t die from that, though, do they? I mean, it’s just his side. Not his head or belly, or anything.”

Tommy laughs at that, although it never reaches the surface. Right, he’s never been in war, that boy. Never seen what bullets do. Maybe they can’t stop the bleeding. Maybe it hit an organ. Maybe it lodged itself in Alfie’s spine in the end, and he won’t ever be able to move his hand and card the ringed fingers through Tommy’s hair again.

Maybe he’ll die from fucking pain, or infection, or the fact that there is a big fucking hole in him…

“It’s gonna be alright,” Tommy hears himself say. It comes out too calm, too far away. “They’ll patch him up.”

It’s best to accept the fact, prepare himself for the possibility that Alfie might die. Tommy will need to stay collected then. Make sure no one will hurt themselves or crush Alfie’s business in a daze. But he can’t even begin contemplating this, not when the narrow white door stays closed under his stare, daring him to sway the probabilities.

Tommy thinks of Ollie’s rambling in the car instead. He was saying something about a man, whatever his name was, who took Sabini’s money, and Alfie didn’t know. Alfie’s discovered too late. And he ran, Ollie said, fuck knows how he managed with that leg of his, but he ran as soon as Ishmael came, concerned about Tommy’s rapid departure, and he pulled everyone he could, right, but it was just shitty odds.

Shitty odds.

Shitty fucking odds.

Alfie didn’t betray after all. And now he might die.

It’s another eternity that Tommy spends trying to unclench his fists until the door finally opens. Ollie jumps to the doctor’s side, Ishmael holding him back by the arm. Tommy keeps staring, now at the face instead of the door handle, and waits.

“He’ll live. He needs to wake up from the anesthesia first, of course, and the wound still might get infected. But no vital organs or bones were hit. You reduced the bleeding significantly in the first seconds-”

Tommy zones out of whatever the man says next. He leans back and presses his head against the wall. Alfie will live. He rubs a hand over his face, probably smudging blood all over, and doesn’t resist this time when the nurse comes, seats herself on the bench beside him and with stern determination begins cleaning his face and his bruised knuckles.

He thanks her. This time, he’s sure he does.

It takes another half an hour before Alfie is moved to a normal room—the one where people wake up instead of dying—and the world returns on its axis.

Tommy leaves just once, to get cigarettes and give his mind some open space. He drags Ollie along and somehow manages to force the boy to return to the office and take care of the correspondence, although that probably earns him several months of pouting. Tommy couldn’t care less. There are very few things in the world that he cares about right now.

When he pulls a chair to Alfie’s bedside and lights a cigarette, it’s well into the evening. The room is dim and silent. Alfie doesn’t move, barely breathes under all those bandages, and his face looks impossibly void of colour under the shadows. This is not how Alfie Solomons is supposed to look like.

Tommy doesn’t stop the sentimental train of thought for once. Fucking hell, he doesn’t ever want to see Alfie again like this, motionless on a hospital bad, stripped of his witty words, barely drawing enough breath to sustain him. He looks vulnerable like this. Small. It’s almost eerie.

A nurse checks on him a few times, but she doesn’t try to get Tommy to leave, just makes sure Alfie isn’t awake or dead yet. He should wake up, Tommy knows. But they can’t be sure until he does, with all the drugs and blood loss.

Tommy wonders what he’ll do if Alfie wakes up. What can he possibly be entitled to do? They do business and fuck. And sometimes they talk, and Tommy feels something warm and safe spread inside his chest when Alfie laughs, looking at him with that unparalleled attention. Sometimes Tommy laughs too, and his leg ends up draped over Alfie’s knees somehow.

The smoke is bitter in his mouth at the third cigarette. The nurse keeps coming, and the night keeps thickening.

If it were him lying there, Polly would pray. Tommy can’t bring himself to, not even now. He feels the bile rise up in his throat at the idea of relying on something so fucking useless, getting his hopes up and then being forced to face the same inevitable conclusion anyway.

So Tommy doesn’t pray. Instead, he stays awake and thinks—long and hard.


	10. Chapter 10

There’s this glass on the nightstand that Alfie keeps staring at when he cracks his eyes open until the wave of nausea passes. He remembers this glass. It’s the only thing he remembers clearly about the last night, really, this small hospital glass and gentle hands bringing it to his lips every now and then. It’s hard to place whose hands those were. Alfie drifted too much between the dark reality and even darker sleep to properly separate them.

But now it’s most definitely morning, judging by the gray light breaking through the drawn curtains, streaked with smoke for some reason. It’s morning, and he’s alive.

And it feels like something’s died in his mouth.

Alfie wrinkles his nose and rolls over onto his back, gripping the sheet underneath when a fit of cough makes his insides flip. Bloody hell, he hates these first hours. Always make him regret not being shot properly and spared of suffering through this misery. Can’t even fucking shoot straight, these Italians, useless fucking nation, infested half a London and left Alfie to observe this mayhem, leaking his guts out on a hospital bed…

A pointed cough interrupts him, and Alfie realizes he started muttering out loud at some point. He turns and finally sees the source of the sickening smell emanating in smoky mist from his left.

“Morning, Alfie,” Tommy says evenly, taking another drag of his cigarette.

Alfie just grunts in response. The world is still not done stitching itself back into a single sharp entity, but Tommy’s face is already coming through the morphine fog. It looks fucking awful. All bruised and shit. But he’s sitting upright, breathing fine it seems, and that will have to be enough until Alfie can move without having everything around move with him.

“I reckon they’ve caught you up on how it went down, yeah. Given you’re not trying to kill me. Not directly a’least.”

Something indecipherable flickers in Tommy’s eyes at that. His steps are heavy when he gets up to put the cigarette out on the windowsill, as if he’s been sitting motionless on that hard wooden chair for too long. He stands there, staring out the window for a moment before returning to the chair and leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees.

“I know you didn’t betray me,” he says, interlacing his fingers.

“Good, good,” Alfie nods, seizing the opportunity to take a closer look at Tommy’s face.

There was something besides the bruises when Alfie opened his eyes properly for the first time. These tired, weary lines under his eyes, not yet blackening but already ingrained deep enough to make his injuries look far worse than they are. Tommy’s fingers shake a little when he rubs his face. Right, that’s trouble.

Alfie reaches for the glass and winces a little when a jolt of pain breaks through the morphine haze.

“So you spent all night here, right? And you didn’t agonize over this tantalizing question, contemplating slashing my throat and all that.” Tommy takes a breath and looks away. “No offense, Tommy, but that is worrisome. Did something go wrong?”

What could he get into his head, sitting there in the darkness, waiting for Alfie to wake up? It was bad enough sometimes on Alfie’s fucking couch, where Tommy often appeared in the middle of the night, with a whiskey bottle and one of Alfie’s books. And Alfie started off safely in bed those nights. Not dying in front of Tommy.

Tommy still refuses to meet his eyes when he sits back and crosses his legs, clasping his hands around his knee until his knuckles whiten. It looks like it physically hurts him to get the words out. Fucking offensive, considering the circumstances. But Alfie keeps his mouth shut and takes another tiny sip.

“I wanted to make sure you woke up,” Tommy finally says. He looks tense but his voice is steady. As if he’s contemplated saying this before and finally gathered the courage to actually go through.

Alfie feels himself melt into the pillow a little.

“Nailed it, sweetie, yeah,” he responds softly, trying to keep his voice nonchalant. No need to spook whatever beautiful anomaly is unfolding. “I’d always wake up to that face of yours, right, would be a fucking waste of opportunity otherwise.”

A corner of his mouth twitches, and Tommy finally, carefully, meets Alfie’s eyes again.

“I’d like that.”

Alfie blinks. The drugs make it hard to rewind whatever he’s just said and find a logical connection. “Like what?”

Tommy’s silent for a moment. His next words only serve to multiply Alfie’s confusion. “Do you want me to call the nurse?”

Like hell he would. Even if he were in pain, which is currently, surprisingly, not the case.

“Nah, leave it, can’t take the pestering right now.”

Tommy looks at the door once, and the bed barely dips when he moves to sit on the edge of it, careful to keep away from Alfie’s injury. Then there are lips pressing down on Alfie’s mouth, they’re dry from too many cigarettes, and Alfie gasps a little, because apparently he forgot to breathe there for a second. It’s so gentle. Calm. Fucking odd. Alfie doesn’t have time to respond before Tommy breaks it and leans his forehead to Alfie’s. He doesn’t flinch away when Alfie rests his hand on his thigh. Another quiet moment passes before Tommy covers Alfie’s hand with his own and runs a finger over the sharp bones on the wrist.

“I’d like to wake up to your face. When we can.” Tommy’s voice is barely above the whisper, but Alfie still shoots a glance to the door, just in case. “I don’t know how it’s gonna work, but we’ll find a way. Now that thing you said that day, about sharing,” Tommy shakes his head a little, lips still parted and eyes locked with Alfie’s. “I can’t promise you that.”

Alfie waits for the “but” that never comes.

“You can try,” he suggests and feels the warm air from Tommy’s huff caress his lips.

“I don’t try. You’ll expect me to succeed.”

“Well, don’t get it into your head, love, but, statistically speaking, yeah, you normally do.”

It does nothing but make Tommy go tense under his hands. Alfie gives it a second. Looks in those tired blue eyes and waits for the push-back to finalize, for Tommy to get up and clear his throat, ending the conversation. Announce some fucking mistake being made maybe. That would be it, for whatever the fuck they’re negotiating right now, because Alfie, right, he’s patient alright, he’ll wait centuries for something that he wants without letting go of it. But he won’t take any bullshit.

Tommy doesn’t do any of those things. Slowly, he relaxes a little and turns his head, hair brushing Alfie’s brow. Still not speaking but not running either.

Alfie sighs. It’s something, innit?

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, I guess,” he mutters, giving a quick kiss to Tommy’s ear, and Tommy breathes a little deeper.

When Tommy emerges from wherever he got lost for a second, his eyebrow is quirked, and the smirk is surely back on his lips.

“Don’t get so dramatic, Solomons.”

The warm sensation is still ghosting over Alfie’s skin when Tommy gets up and fixes his clothes as best as he can. Alfie suddenly feels the need to say something obnoxiously sweet and bites his tongue before the morphine can actually make him carry it out. Nothing feels completely real yet. Maybe that’s why Thomas thought it was a good idea to talk about all this now, when there is a good chance Alfie won’t coherently remember the better part of it.

Fucking Shelby.

He shifts and curses loudly when the remaining water spills from the glass that he completely forgot was nestled by his side.

It’ll be a fun fucking day.

“So what, is it some sort of fucking proposal?” he says and cringes at how hoarse his voice sounds at normal volumes.

Tommy smooths out the crease on his cuff and checks his watch. He suddenly looks normal again, less knackered. Collected and uncompromising despite not having his jacket or coat on.

“It’s business. We’re partners now, Alfie, remember?”

And if the glint of mirth in Tommy’s eyes before he turns to the door is anything to go by, Alfie’d say that he’s happy. The weariness in the far corner of Alfie’s mind eases yet another notch. Happiness has always been that one thing that Tommy was absolute shit at faking. Perhaps, with time, Alfie will stop looking for cues of deceit altogether.

For now, he sits straighter and bellows into the open door for Ishmael to come in, revelling in how something in his chest flutters a little. For reasons entirely unrelated to any gunshot wounds.

Tommy stays in London for the whole week after that, and Alfie would love nothing more than to say he’s impressed, but reality is unsurprisingly indifferent to his desires. The problem is, Alfie’s not the best patient. And Tommy, it turns out, is void of common sense only when it comes to himself.

He refuses to help Alfie break out of the hospital earlier than in a week. And he—without much resistance, which is something that Alfie will definitely and violently sort out later—gets the whole bunch of Alfie’s useless staff to solemnly vow to hold their ground as well.

So they don’t really speak this week. Except for Alfie’s swearing. Then again, it’s decidedly a monologue.

Things change when the week does run out, and Alfie’s scared away the better two thirds of nurses. The remaining third that he’s bribed look away when Tommy throws him some clothes and smokes in the hallway while he makes himself presentable for the first time in the whole of eternity. Not that Alfie cares much, not normally. But he’s so disgusted with feeling helpless that finally looking decent is as necessary as fucking breathing.

It’s a ride that Alfie spends waffling about, a little more enthusiastically than his usual, suddenly vividly feeling just how much everything in his body hurts. He wants to lie back down, curl into himself and sob into a pillow like a little boy. Fucking stupid, considering the pain is nowhere as sharp as it used to be anymore. It’s just everything at once.

When they get to Alfie’s house, Tommy leaves, and Alfie almost talks himself into just sending it to hell and getting on with the plan. What’s there to fucking be ashamed of anyway? He’s shot and exhausted, and he hasn’t been to the office in ages, will probably find it in shambles when he returns.

Unless Tommy took over completely, Ollie must be running things at the bakery. It almost becomes the last crack Alfie’s resolve needs to collapse.

But then, when Alfie’s just reaches the bedroom and plummets under the covers, the front door opens, and Illa’s brisk voice greets someone in English. Alfie ignores it. She’s got her instructions regarding visitors.

He ignores it even when Tommy’s face, almost healed by now, hovers over him with brow furrowed.

“Go away,” Alfie croaks, covering his eyes with his hand. “You did, didn’t ya. Go, I mean.”

There’s a tiny smile in Tommy’s sigh, “I’ve postponed it until evening. And you don’t make any bloody sense.”

Two cool hands come to cradle his face, and Alfie briefly protests, but then Tommy tells him to shut up and wraps him in a tight embrace, and it’s simply too new, too magnificent to spoil with whatever whiny grumpiness has got into his head. So Alfie clenches his teeth at first and then relaxes. Breathes out into Tommy’s neck. And allows him to get close.

When Tommy comes back again that evening, Alfie sits on the couch downstairs with his newspaper and his dog, finally feeling like he’s back in his skin.

Tommy doesn’t say a word at first. Then, still standing at the door in his new coat, he opens the briefcase he’s been carrying and holds up two humble papers with a slightly manic smile that lights everything in Alfie’s body.

They celebrate that night, thin walls be damned.

***

The betting shop on Watery Lane is already empty at this late afternoon hour. It’s a nice day. Sunny. The three people inside the shop are bickering quietly enough not to disturb the rare moment of serenity hanging over Small Heath.

They all shut up and watch with fake indifference as Tommy walks up to the table under the chalkboard and opens his briefcase.

He fishes for one particular paper. Clears his throat, turning to face them.

“As much as it pains me to say it, all profits from the racecourses will now have to be divided equally. From now on, our pitches belong to the Shelby Brothers Limited-” Tommy waves the paper and bites back a smile “-as it states on this license, and are, thereby, completely legal.”

It’s fucking fantastic how three people can emit so much sound. The shop swells when Polly claps her hands, and John exclaims something to ring over Arthur’s raspy voice, rushing from his idling on the tabletop to Tommy’s side.

Their cheering is infectious, and Tommy feels a broad smile bloom on his face. He hands the document over to John and stays put while Arthur slams his palm into his back, hard enough to send him stumbling forward a little.

And Tommy laughs, shoving his brother away.

It’s brief. Like an explosion. But it’s warmer than any of them have had, together, in a very long time. Tommy catches Polly’s glinting eyes when she leans on the table and smiles up at him, slapping John’s arm when he comes a little too close to tearing the license in half.

The warm glow is short-lived. Tommy already feels the familiar restlessness settle in his bones, pushing him to run, make this plan he’s carved out for him and Alfie work.

“Right, Johny-boy,” Arthur proclaims then, brushing his hair back. “It’s time we wash that limited occasion down, what’d ya say.”

“I’d say it’s on you,” John retorts effortlessly and barely evades Arthur’s sharp elbow poking him in the ribs.

“Didn’t lift a finger for that share and runs his mouth like that, would ya look at him.” Arthur stops in the door and looks back, snatching Tommy into the present moment. “Tommy, you coming?”

“You go, boys, I’ll catch up. You deserve it.”

Polly is still smiling when the door shuts behind them and tilts her head to the side, surveying the expression on Tommy’s face.

“Out with it,” she says simply.

Tommy resists the urge to sigh. The plan was not perfect, of course. But he hoped that getting at least two Shelbys drunk before telling them about the export license would pad the fall from wanting Alfie Solomons ugly murdered to conducting official business with him. Logically, he should now get a tad nervous.

But as Tommy tells her about the deal, in a calm, measured voice, there isn’t a spec of fear in his heart.

“Are you with him?”

Tommy merely raises his eyebrows at her bluntness.

“In this business. Yes.”

Polly huffs and darts her gaze away from his suddenly cold eyes, mouth twitching as it does when she’s thinking about something. Tommy just rests there, watching her fingers absently graze the edge of the gambling license.

It would be a fucking shame to push her away for something only she could truly understand. But that’s a different kind of danger. One that Tommy will never let off the leash.

Several clock beats later, Polly sighs and crosses her arms over her chest, turning back to face him.

“A man should be with a woman. God knows you wreck too much havoc when you’re alone.” A corner of her mouth quirks up, and there’s a familiar spark in her eyes, one Tommy’s seen so many times in the mirror. “With another man? This town will have to fucking evacuate.”

Tommy agrees. Not just this town. With that man, the whole of America is in as much trouble. The whole fucking universe, perhaps. But there’s no room to say it now. Not until he’s sure that when this twisted world with dingy alleys and mud on the carpets gets in their faces, he can move it back away.

Tommy looks at Polly evenly, not letting emotions worm their way into his gaze, and locks the license away before heading for the door.

“Well, Polly. I doubt there’s anything that can surprise them at this point.”

The only answer Tommy gets is a light shove to the shoulder that feels more like a pat when Polly passes him and slips out the door. They would get along, Tommy suddenly thinks, Polly and Alfie. Unless they kill each other first.

Tommy fixes his cap and follows her out.

It’s warm and quiet on the street, with the hours rolling lazily towards the dusk. The air is lighter today for some reason. And if anyone catches a glimpse of the smile lingering on Tommy Shelby’s lips as he gets a cigarette and walks to the Garrison, they have enough sense to avert their eyes and attribute it to the extraordinarily sunny Birmingham day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends, with shameless fluff just like we all deserve.  
> Man, that was a ride. I need some time now to process the sheer volume of this monstrosity, because right now it doesn’t feel like there are any words left in English, lol  
> A huge thank you to everybody who read this, commented or left a kudos, you’re precious to me. Seriously, the motivation from your words was enormous.  
> Also, I suddenly remembered that tumblr was a thing. There's not much stuff there yet, but come say hi if you feel like it: @summer-jay  
> And now I'm off to my little coffee-infused celebration


End file.
